


I'm Not Paralyzed, But I Seem To Be Struck By You

by collaborativesheriartyparty



Series: To What End? [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't want to give away too many spoilers here..., Emotionally elusive consultants in a different kind of love., Flirting, Light Angst, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, Texting (chapters 1-3), jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collaborativesheriartyparty/pseuds/collaborativesheriartyparty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody ever gets to Jim.</p><p>This doesn't stop Sherlock from trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Not our playground, we just play in it. All characters belong to BBC Sherlock, its writers, etc. 
> 
> This is a collaborative work, so paragraphs (ch. 4 onward) are separated by POV.
> 
> Title from the Finger Eleven song Paralyzer.

****

(header credit goes to [boone_spn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Boone_spn/pseuds/Boone_spn))

 

**Monday**

I just had a dream that you killed me. It was beautiful. JM

  
Most people would find that rather disturbing. SH

  
Well, they’re missing out. JM

  
That could be argued. Tell me, exactly how did I kill you? SH

  
With you bare hands right around my neck. JM

  
Interesting. I would have expected you to fight back. SH

  
I’m not a lucid dreamer, didn’t have much say in how it went. Don’t even remember what dream-me did to make you so angry. JM

  
I’m sure it wasn’t that difficult. I apologize for killing dream-you. SH

  
That’s very sweet of you, Sherlock, apology accepted. JM

  
Ever dream about me? JM

  
Just the usual nightmares, you know. SH

  
Ooh. Tell me one. JM

  
They’re all rather vague. Just your face…in mist. I can hardly see it but I know it’s you. SH

  
Disappointingly vague, I must say. JM

  
Considering they come about three times a week, I wouldn’t say it’s that disappointing. SH

  
My, my. I’ve left quite the impression. JM

  
Unfortunately. SH

  
I’d say I’m sorry but I’d be lying. I like knowing you’re thinking of me. JM

  
Ha. At least you don’t kill me. SH

  
Though I suppose I shouldn’t speak too soon. SH

  
You really shouldn’t. There’s a funny little theory that when you can’t sleep at night, it’s because you’re awake in somebody else’s dream. JM

  
Having trouble sleeping, are we? Is that why you texted? SH

  
If I’d gone back to sleep I might have forgotten the dream. JM

  
I’m flattered it affected you enough to text me. SH

  
Are you, really? JM

  
Absolutely. Always nice to know when my favourite psychopath is thinking of me. SH

  
I’m rarely not, to be truthful about it. JM

  
Can’t say I’m surprised. SH

  
So, what does a Sherlock do at this hour? I’m curious. Is he watching television? Is he reading? What’s he wearing? JM

  
Doing an experiment, of course. Wearing the bed sheets. I think John is yelling at me but I’m not sure. SH

  
He’s so parental. How cute. JM

  
If by cute, you mean irritating. SH

  
Well, that, too. I certainly wouldn’t put up with it. JM

  
Yes, well. Friend and all that. SH

  
Do you sleep in just the sheets? JM

  
If I’m not bothered to put pants on. Sometimes it gets hot. SH

  
Almost a pity it’s just nightmares I’ve inspired. JM

  
What else would there be? SH

  
Hardly as if you could stop your subconscious if it went places your mind usually wouldn’t. JM

  
I’d like to think I’m in fairly good control of my subconscious. SH

  
Even when asleep? JM

  
…maybe not. SH

  
I’m curious but won’t bother asking. Because you wouldn’t tell me, anyway. JM

  
Seems as if you’ve already figured it out yourself. SH

  
Have I? Fascinating! JM

  
That or you’re feeling even more confident in yourself than usual. SH

  
Trust you to crush what little enjoyment I can extract from purposeful vagueness. JM

  
Oh? Tell me what the great Moriarty is thinking, then. SH

  
Mm, I don’t think I will…Would hate for John to catch you blushing at your phone, after all. JM

  
I’m not a teenage girl, thank you. SH

  
Just looking out for you, dear. JM

  
You’re no fun. SH

  
That’s not true. I’m plenty of fun. Your sort of fun, if I’m not mistaken. JM

  
My sort of fun involves murder, so yes, that is true. But there’s no murder currently. SH

  
So barring murder you actually want to hear all my nasty little thoughts? That’s /very/ good to know. JM

  
…I do enjoy finding out what goes on in that warped head of yours, yes. SH

  
Why? JM

  
Helps me understand why you do the things you do. SH

  
And why do you want to do that? Still think you’re going to catch me one of these days? JM

  
Maybe not, but I do so enjoy the chase. SH

  
So do I, sweetheart. So do I. JM

  
Good to know we’re on the same page. SH

  
Same book, at least. Maybe the same chapter. JM

  
Not the same page, then? SH

  
Doubt overrides hope on that one, I’m afraid. JM

  
That’s disappointing, but expected. We are quite different, after all. SH

  
I’d creep into your brain at night if I could. Rearrange those dreams a little. Shoo away the mist. JM

  
So it would be clear? That’s an even scarier thought. SH

  
Well, then. Keep your mist. JM

  
Oh, don’t be like that. I would like the nightmares to go away if something more pleasant would replace them. SH

  
If it were up to me…ah, but we probably even define ‘pleasant’ differently. JM

  
You certainly love being vague, don’t you? SH

  
It’s often more helpful than the alternative. JM

  
There you go again. Which is? SH

  
Letting spill a million different thoughts, laying them in your hands and expecting you to do something with them. Expecting things of others is foolish, I’ve found. JM

  
And there are at least a million, when it comes to you. They all conflict each other. JM

  
Even those who you claim to be are ‘just like you’? How will you know if you never try? SH

  
Could ask you the same question. JM

  
I’m not the one with the million conflicting thoughts. SH

  
Which is precisely why trying seems futile. JM

  
You never know what will happen until you try. SH

  
Should quit that detective gig and become a motivational speaker. JM

  
Shut up. SH

  
Just some friendly advice. SH

  
We’re not… There you go, conflicting me again. JM

  
What, friends? Okay, then. Some enemyly advice. SH

  
That’s better. JM

  
Funny how a word throws you into confusion. SH

  
Maybe I just felt like nitpicking your choice of phrase. JM

  
Well, you know that saying. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. SH

  
Works in theory. JM

  
Considering you’re texting me your dreams at this late hour, I’d say we’ve put it into practice. SH

  
Nooooo. No. You’re too scared of me to let me close. That much is plain. JM

  
Scared? No, I wouldn’t say that. You are only human. SH

  
Yes, and your thrice-a-week nightmares attest to my chances. JM

  
Nightmares never hurt anyone. SH

  
True enough….Still experimenting? JM

  
No, John made me put it back in the refrigerator. SH

  
What a spoilsport. JM

  
Indeed. Come later, he’ll fall back asleep, though. Then the fun can start. SH

  
I’d never yell at you for your experiments, you know. JM

  
That’s…strangely kind of you. SH

  
I doubt you’d enjoy being observed while carrying them out… JM

  
I don’t mind either way. It’s nice to have the company, as long as they aren’t yelling at me because of a few spare limbs. SH

  
I wouldn’t even notice the limbs. JM

  
Only because you’re so used to them yourself, I imagine. SH

Imagine as you like. JM

  
Yes, well. If John shared your indifference, I’d be much farther along in my research. SH

  
Or if I weren’t bothering you with texts at random hours, I’m sure. JM

  
If it weren’t for this conversation, I’d likely be pulling my hair out, so I thank you. SH

  
A certain comfortableness around corpse parts isn’t why I wouldn’t notice them, by the way. JM

  
Superfluous to say things you could already guess at, but I can’t un-press Send, so there you have it. JM

  
Fallen asleep on me? Some conversationalist you are. JM

  
Sherlock… JM

  
No, no. Just keeping an eye on John. Why else would you be comfortable with them? SH

  
I’d be watching you, in your natural state. That’s more interesting to me. JM

  
Really? How very un-you like. SH

  
Dead bodies are a dime a dozen in my world, darling. But you’re like a rare gem or elusive animal… It sounds better in my head… JM

  
No, flattery is always nice. Not sure why you would want to flatter me, but it’s still nice. SH

  
I’ve flattered you before, it shouldn’t surprise you. JM

  
Yes, as part of the game or for show. But there’s just us now. SH

  
Did you think it impossible that I meant it, before? JM

  
It seems hard to when you’re putting on an act. SH

  
Not as it if really matters, though, whether I mean it. JM

  
Why not? SH

  
I suppose it does from an intellectual standpoint… JM

  
Even from a non-intellectual view. It’s nice to know. SH

  
What view would that be? JM

  
John must be doing something awfully interesting. Perhaps I should leave you two alone. JM

  
Simply a normal person’s view, of course. If by interesting you mean incredibly boring, yes. SH

  
And no. SH

  
I see. JM

  
I would imagine you should be getting fairly tired yourself. SH

  
It’s not as if I’m dreaming of you so nothing should be keeping you awake, hm? SH

  
Sleep is just sleep. And your remaining awake means you might slip in and strangle me again. No, I’m…pensive, not tired. JM

  
Really? Still pensive even after our little talk? SH

  
Oh, more so. JM

  
Oh, dear. It’s my fault, isn’t it? SH

  
Pensive isn’t necessarily a bad thing. JM

  
Well. Is it a bad thing? SH

  
Again, my answers conflict each other terribly. JM

  
You should really work on that. SH

  
Keeps things interesting. JM

  
You mean confusing. SH

  
Maybe. JM

  
Certainly. I’ve never known you to not have a definite answer regarding anything. You’re always full of confidence in very thing you do, or that’s what it seems like. SH

  
Should thoughts conflict each other, why disregard one for another? There is no black and white. That’d be boring. Nobody sits down at a poker game with absolute certainty they’re going to win it. But the cards change every hand, and every single one of those cards is used to its best potential. JM

  
I see. But you can’t win if you don’t even know what the cards are. SH

  
Are you referring to me or to yourself? JM

  
…both? SH

  
You don’t see people at poker games showing off their hand, either. JM

  
True. You’re doing that right now though, are you not? SH

  
Am I? JM

  
Seems like it to me. SH

  
And what, pray tell, have I given away so easily? JM

  
Well, already you’ve shared that you dream about me, you wouldn’t yell at me for my experiments, I’m like a rare gem and your thoughts are ever conflicting. SH

  
That’s really not much. JM

  
To you, perhaps. SH

  
You’ve shown your hand a bit, too. JM

  
Oh? Enlighten me. SH

  
You like it when I flatter you, even more when you’re sure I mean it, for the same reasons normal people would. You’re comfortable with your living arrangements but stifled. I star in your nightmares while you sleep naked.  You also offered friendly advice to someone who’s vowed to end you. What a very decent thing to do. JM

  
All normal-ish things I would do with John. SH

  
But I’m not John. JM

No, you’re him, just with an infinitely more advanced intellect and psychopathic streak. SH

John and I have only one thing in common, and that’s you.  JM

Oh? Don’t I feel special, then. SH

  
As you should, my dear.  And I should sleep…much as I’m enjoying this little chat.  JM

  
Yes, of course. Even serial killers need their sleep. SH

  
Wow, your epithets for me aren’t half as nice as mine for you.  Not surprising.  Happy experimenting.  And if I do pop up in your dreams tonight, I hope it’s pleasantly.  JM

  
I call them as I see them. Can’t pop up if  I don’t sleep. Sweet dreams. SH

  
[If you’re in them, they will be. JM  DELETED.]


	2. Wednesday

**Wednesday**

Up late again, I see.  JM

Do you?  Been spying on me again, then?  SH

Drove past Baker St. after a late meeting.  Saw your lights were on.  JM

Ah, yes, of course.  Too busy to stop in and say hello, I imagine.  SH

Very.  And that’d have been awfully presumptuous of me.  Case or experiment?  JM

Case, technically, but I gave it to John.  It’s only a 5.  SH

Poor under-stimulated Sherlock’s brain!  Had I the time, I’d wreak a bit of havoc just for you.  JM

How sweet.  I don’t think Lestrade or the Yard would share my sentiments, however.  SH

Good thing I’m not overly concerned about their opinion.  JM

No, I would imagine not, but having to work with their painfully idiotic team gives me quite the headache.  SH

Oh, well, I’d give you first dibs next time, but that would look suspicious if you beat them to a scene.  You’d get all the credit for my work.  Can’t have that.  JM

No, considering I rather enjoy being a free man, we certainly could not have that.  Besides, if I wanted to execute a murder, I’d be just fine doing it myself.  SH

I’m sure you would!  It’s a pretty little thought… JM

One that will never see the light of day, unfortunately.  SH

Never say never.  Then again, you had every chance at the pool and didn’t pull the trigger.  Wonder why.  JM

Let’s just say I like the suspense.  SH

Gets your heart racing, does it?  JM

You could say that.  The bomb jacket certainly contributed to it, as well.  SH

It made for good insurance.  What are you working on tonight?  JM

Didn’t trust me, eh?  Nothing big, just seeing if it is possible to survive a hanging.  SH

Genius Detective Accidentally Hangs Self, there’s a headline.  Be careful, you maniac.  JM

That’d be a lot kinder than some of the headlines I’ve seen.  Very well, mother.  SH

Ahem, I’m sure you mean Daddy.  And it’s not to do with kindness.  More that your accidental demise would ruin all my fun in trying.  JM

Yes, of course.  Forgive me, but I think my research takes precedence over your fun.  SH

Well, would save me the trouble if you slipped up.  Though I might miss you.  Your brother’s not half as entertaining or aesthetically wondrous, and everyone else is so depressingly insipid.  JM

Then I’ll make sure not to die, if it will please Your Highness.  SH

You sweet-talker.  Flattery will get you everywhere, darling.  JM

And where will sarcasm get me?  SH

It has its charm.  I’ve come to expect it from you.  Case in point, you wouldn’t have actually wanted me to drop by and say hello.  JM

There we are again with the ‘never know until you try’ nonsense.  You’re quite the pessimist.  SH

I really am.  And what you said earlier was true, I don’t trust you.  JM

Have I ever given you a reason not to?  SH

None that I can think of.  JM

Then I’d love to hear your reasoning.  SH

Well, from a professional standpoint, it could prove disastrous.  That’s reason enough, don’t you agree?  JM

Perhaps.  Though it is rather strange that a criminal doesn’t trust me.  SH

Not all that strange.  Different sides of the line.  JM

Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t trust you either.  SH

I know.  All for the better, really.  JM

If we don’t trust each other, how will we ever be able to get things done?  SH

What things?  JM

You know, the whole ‘I chase you, you chase me’ act.  SH

Oh, I have maximum faith we’d hunt each other down to the ends of the earth, if we had to.  That’s not trust, that’s fact.  JM

I suppose you’re right.  How tragic.  SH

Is it?  JM

A lack of trust?  Of course.  SH

Good god, why?  JM

I enjoy being around people I can somewhat trust.  Call it a false sense of security.  SH

Who ever said anything about spending time around each other?  JM

I would say five minutes is enough to go on, wouldn’t you?  SH

Trust wasn’t high on my list of objectives at the pool.  Quite the opposite.  So unless you’re referring to the future, I don’t see how it matters.  JM

No, I suppose it doesn’t.  Then this conversation was pretty much pointless.  SH

Did there need to be a point?  Here I thought we were just passing the time?  JM

No, no.  Our little conversation did help pass the time.  It’s so dreadfully boring being suspended in the air with nothing to do.  SH

You really should have a spotter for that.  And seeing as ‘did’ is past tense, I suppose I’ll just leave you to it.  JM

Oh, yes, I’ll go ask John, he would love to help.  Got somewhere else to be tonight?  SH

Maybe, maybe not.  Just would hate to take up any more of your time with pointlessness.  JM

I believe you’re the one who started this conversation of trust, yes?  SH

You asked.  I answered belatedly.  JM

You didn’t have to tell me.  SH

Did it do anything but confirm something you already knew?  JM

No, actually, but it was very enlightening.  SH

[You’re infuriatDeleted.  Have fun with John.  Deleted.]  Hardly see how it’s ‘enlightening’ if you already knew.  JM

Usually if something is enlightening, the knowledge was not known beforehand.  SH

If it wasn’t known, you weren’t listening very well, dearest.  Nobody ever gets to me.  JM

Perhaps I was a bit naïve.  But it is so fun to try.  SH

To what end?  JM

You tell me.  SH

Have a good night, Sherlock.  And do be careful with the noose.  JM

Oh, that’s not fair.  SH

-

Somehow, yet again, Sherlock had left him frozen, with the stricken look of a deer in headlights.  Cut this off before you say something you regret.  What was trust?  And why the hell did Sherlock think they were playing _fair_?  In truth, Jim couldn’t tell, for he wasn’t resolved on the matter himself.  There was a creeping sense of the maze at the - yes - utter pointlessness at theorizing.  Sherlock was a scientist - of course he’d suggest _trying_ , not having the slightest idea what trying might mean to Jim.  No, no.  There were three options: banter, on which he was beginning to feel sour, because it had taken a bad turn, or so it seemed to the criminal.  

Another option was diving past banter, deciding to trust for a moment…the very idea brought his hand to his hairline, tugging at strands in agitation for a moment before passing over his forehead, eyes closing.  No.  He’d leave Sherlock hanging, every pun intended.  Didn’t want to, really, but ‘pessimism’ was just the tip of the fuckin’ iceberg was Jim was concerned.

And why should Sherlock trust him?  Jim had lied even tonight, saying he’d ‘driven past’.  No such luck.  Inexorably he had slowed the car and parked it just around the corner, out of sight of 221b but there, just in case….in case of _what_?

Jim’s eyes opened, and the master of self-sabotage shoved the key in the wheel and turned it.  ”Let him hang,” Jim muttered under his breath, as much to remind himself as to wish asphyxiation on his favorite distraction.  He got the car going slowly, for peeling out would just attract attention, and pulling into traffic, aborted whatever mission he’d unconsciously been on.

-

After the first five minutes of waiting, staring down at the bright screen cutting through the rest of the darkness in the room, Sherlock knew that he would not be receiving a message back. Okay, so maybe he had pushed it a bit, but in all fairness and his defense, he expected Jim to dish it out twofold, not retreat like a frightened little girl. Sherlock should not have been genuinely worrying that he had _broken_ the man, for lack of a better word. It had all seemed a bit of fun to the detective, a distraction to pass the time and to calm his nerves which had returned to the edge. Finally, he carefully slipped himself from the noose and dropped gracefully to the waiting stool below. If anything, he had expected Jim to egg the experiment on, and Sherlock certainly wasn’t expecting a “be careful” from him.

Of course, Sherlock wouldn’t dare tell the criminal that despite everything, he still had a glimmer of Sherlock’s trust. Certainly a lot less than the trust Sherlock held for, say, John, but still a tiny bit. Why shouldn’t he? Despite the whole incident with Irene, there wasn’t really anything that Jim had _lied_ about and Sherlock admired that about him. It was hard for a day to go by where the detective /didn’t/ lie about something. It was all part of the job, really. 

With a final and resounding sigh, he turned his phone off, then immediately turned it back on in anticipation of another message. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Could’ve toned it down a bit. He made a _criminal_ want to stop texting him and that was rather sad. Then again, any hope of understanding Jim was a lost cause, especially when he was so secretive and changeable, but the thought of /wanting/ to understand was still fresh in Sherlock’s mind, something he was sure would not go away any time soon.

-


	3. Friday

**Friday**

Did I really scare you off that much?  SH

Annoyed me, is more the word.  Congratulations on a successful survival, by the way.  JM

Oh?  I thought no one ever got to you.  Dripping with sarcasm, I see.  SH

That’s different, people annoy me daily.  JM

Whatever did I do to annoy you?  SH

Made me repeat myself.  JM

In regards to what, exactly?  SH

Don’t make me again, my god.  You must be bored.  JM

Oh, come now.  For me.  SH

Meet me for a drink tonight.  JM

[Oh god yes. Deleted.] That was…unexpected.  SH

That’s good to know.  JM

I thought I would be the last person you would ever ask for drinks.  That doesn’t mean no, obviously.  SH

You probably are the last person I should, actually.  For more than a few reasons.  JM

Does that mean you’re going to retract your offer?  SH

Never said that.  JM

Good.  Yes.  SH

So.  Someone you’ve recently described as a warped-minded serial killer asks you out for a drink, and you say yes?  Just clarifying.  If only for your sake.  JM

And you ask someone you don’t trust and who annoys you and who gives you conflicting thoughts for a drink.  Just clarifying for /your/ sake.  SH

Well.  At least we know it won’t be boring.  JM

Yes.  I’m looking forward to how it turns out, surprisingly.  SH

[I didn’t think you’d say yes.  Deleted]  Why is that?  JM

A chance to explore that twisted mind of yours.  Though I should be asking why you decided to ask.  SH

It’s crossed my mind from time to time.  JM

What, getting drinks?  SH

Yes.  Whether your motivational speaking inspired the asking or whether I’d like a chance to poison you, is just a risk you’ll have to take.  JM

You and I both know that would be too easy and too boring.  SH

And I’m nothing if not an opportunist.  But you’re very brave.  I’ll be finished with business in an hour.  JM

To be brave, I would have to be either nervous or frightened, which I am neither.  SH

Apples + Pears, 26 Osborn Street.  See you in an hour.  JM

You certainly will.  SH


	4. Friday Night

Okay, so maybe Sherlock was an even bigger liar than he let on, though the better word in this case would be bluffing. It was all simply a game, and he knew that Jim must have realised that too. That’s why he made this bet, offering the detective out for drinks. There was no other possible explanation for the man’s impulse. Ever since they had met, Sherlock recalled Jim’s love of the game and this was all simply a part of it, one that Sherlock was willing to play along with, for now. Sure, he was pretty brave, but that meant that he was also nervous. But he’d sooner give up his line of work than let his vulnerability show, especially to someone as dangerous as Jim.  
  
Nevertheless, here he was, pulling on his scarf, then the coat, thoughts racing as he did so. He probably should have declined. Nothing would have changed between them, they would go back to the same old song and dance and Sherlock would have forgotten about this incident in a while. Maybe. But now that he had accepted, it was impossible to know what would come of this particular encounter. Sherlock was never one for drinks anyway, though Jim probably knew that, too. Yes, he should have forgotten all about the dangerous offer.  
  
Yet here he was, propping himself up against the bar, wondering what exactly was even prompting him to stay. He could stand up and walk right out. What would Jim do? Lose the non-existent trust that he already possessed for Sherlock? Get angry? He checked his phone, eyes glancing back to the door every few seconds to see if the criminal had arrived.  
  
-  
  
If there was any one thing Jim was good at, it was multi-tasking, which of course wasn’t one single thing at all.  To keep himself from questioning just what in the fresh hell he and Sherlock were thinking, he threw himself into the coded emails to a few operatives he knew in Anonymous, and took a call from a Chinese arms dealer about a shipment soon to come through London before moving elsewhere.  It was his thinking that China should keep its arms, if it wanted to keep little napoleon complex North Korea under control, but governments only really interested him when he was in a position to bring one down.  He was responsible now for lining up security for the shipment, and that meant phone calls later.  Not now, when the hour was dwindling and the promise of Sherlock awaited.  
  
As he buttoned up a black dress shirt, Jim did take the time to wonder what Sherlock was up to.  It wasn’t that it would bother him terribly if he showed up only to be cuffed and paraded off; it seemed unlikely, for he did believe that Sherlock wanted to pick his brain.  Well, good luck there, Jim smirked to himself.  His mind was a fortress, and the only way Sherlock could possibly ever get to it—  
  
Hope fluttered in like a moth, only for Jim to insantaneously light a mental match to its wings, effectively killing the thought.  It was extremely energizing to think he’d see Sherlock again, away from John, just the two of them.  As much as The Game limited their trust, it protected them both, for anything that slipped out or was said out of turn could be attributed to it.  No matter what happened, no matter how vulnerable Jim could seem, Sherlock had seen him with Molly, and knew the seeming sweetness of which he was capable, and therefore doubt everything.  
  
Whether that was a blessing or a curse, he couldn’t quite figure out.  To do so properly, yes, a sit-down was in order, and Jim hastened to find a taxi. Should anything go awry, there was always the option of getting blackout drunk, so cabs would have to do.  As contingency plans went, ‘drunk’ was an admittedly weak one, but it would have to do.  The cabbie got a generous sum out of him for a tip, and indeed, having resolved there was little reason to watch his words, there may have been a spring in his step.  This was, more than anything, supposed to be fun.  Sherlock needn’t know how many times Jim had pictured such a meeting, nor how most of the imagined nights ended.  This one was real.   
  
Confidence was key.  Especially as Sherlock had mentioned it the other night, and Jim took the stairs to the basement bar quick and gracefully, eyes large in the low light.  Sherlock was impossible to miss, taller than most around even sitting, and Jim felt a smirk twitch at the corner of his lip when Sherlock’s eyes met his.  Showtime.  The criminal crossed the room and shrugged off his winter coat, placing it over the back of the seat directly beside Sherlock before availing himself of it.  “Sorry if I’m late,” he declared, sounding not sorry at all, eyes scanning the bottles along the bar wall so that his own might not come into contact with Sherlock’s at close range yet.  “Been waiting long?” The lack of drink before the other man made him doubt it, but it was nice to know Sherlock had been eager to see him.     
  
-  
  
The man of the hour, or, at least, Sherlock’s hour paraded in, albeit with a lot less flashiness and flair than Sherlock would have expected from a man so obsessed with theatrics that it sometimes gave the detective a headache and made him question why Jim didn’t just give up the whole ‘consulting criminal’ act and become an actor. Perhaps it was his love of the game, though there was always the whole psychopathic thing that was such a normalcy to Sherlock now that it pretty much blended all into Jim’s personality. Clever, cunning, psychopathic.  
  
But the man currently making his way across the floor towrads the bar was…graceful? Particular? Not a ticking time bomb? Well, currently, anyway. The night was still young and hadn’t even started yet. But Sherlock certainly was not going to complain, with a rare placated Jim being thrown at him like this. It was a treat and one the man was going to thoroughly enjoy. Hopefully he would be a bit more open to opening up, especially with a few drinks helping along. Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to help anything himself, but Jim was welcome to, as far as he was concerned, if it made his goal come a bit easier.  
  
He watched as the criminal discarded his jacket and draped it over the back of his seat with a sort of subtle fascination. Surely Jim wasn’t under the impression that this was a date? No, certainly not. Though, his clothes seemed to imply a different story. Sherlock was in his usual comfortable attire and the thought hadn’t crossed his mind that he should dress up a bit. Maybe that was a social faux pas on his part. Nevertheless, he did look quite dapper, and Sherlock admired that. It indicated that he at least cared a but about their little get together, enough to want to make an impression, anyway.  
  
Okay, so Sherlock could feel himself already becoming too focused on the little details. Like he always did. He glanced in front of him, noticing the distinct lack of a drink. “Obviously not, as I don’t even have a drink yet and it’s only a few minutes past the hour.” He bit his tongue and cleared his throat quietly, trying again. “Er…no, not long,” he said flippantly, giving a small smile. “Glad you made it.”  
  
-  
  
Just being this near to Sherlock was exciting in its own way, which Jim managed to disguise by making himself move languidly, one knee crossing over the other in a careful manner so as not to bump Sherlock, and his fingers fiddling slowly with the watch on his wrist to turn the face up.  Jim looked, he knew, rather more relaxed than he felt.  It was curious, the awareness of how much he could genuinely enjoy this, and knowing how much he had to hold back of necessity.  Until he knew _why_ Sherlock wanted to be there with him, really truly why, there was still cause to keep his guard up.  Even once he knew, one way or another, it might not falter.  Only time would tell.  
  
Sherlock’s voice was as sonorous as Jim remembered, even without the help of the pool echo.  And heavens, wasn’t that a charming little smile.  Jim slid his gaze more fully to Sherlock’s face, his eyes soft but inscrutable as they took in the entire picture before him.  Those eyes were the exact reason, the criminal realized, that a phrase as poetic as ‘rare gem’ had sprung to mind.  Just gorgeous, and seemed so unaware of it, and boyish in a way that made Jim feel old despite having only six years up on the detective.  
  
At the pleasantries, Jim tried not to let the inevitable, bone-deep sweep of suspicion show on his features.  Sherlock was glad?  Why?  Had he given this thought before, too?  Curious.  Past Sherlock, he noticed the bartender glancing, surely soon to make his way over.  “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” Jim said smoothly as he leaned against the back of the tall chair, crossing his arms over his chest loosely before continuing in a drawl, “Order whatever you like, my treat.”  From where he sat, he could see the door perfectly; if either of them had been followed and anyone came in just to get an eyeful, he’d know.  It was a legitimate concern, for their fraternizing could be looked at askance from clients on both sides of the line that separated good from bad, cops from robbers, Sherlock from Jim.  He could also see the pale skin of Sherlock’s neck but didn’t stare, merely let his eyes graze before alighting on the approaching bartender.  “Rum and coke, rocks,” was Jim’s order, tone pleasant, and he couldn’t help but feel a niggling curiosity even as to Sherlock’s choice of drinks.  He wanted to know /everything/ about him.  
  
-  
  
Oh, the whole ordeal was rather cute. Sherlock watched with an amused smile and an eyebrow slightly raised as Jim took his seat, taking it so spectacularly that it was more like a throne. Just the smallest movements Jim made a show of, perhaps not consciously but Sherlock found himself to be a willing audience member. It was a mystery to him as to why Jim was putting on this act for him in the first place, why he wasn’t simply being himself. They were both grown men, not teenagers, and there was no reason for nervousness. Of course, he would never vocalise any of this to the criminal, let alone admit it to himself. He moved his legs subconsciously as Jim did, mirroring him, straightening up in his seat a bit.  
  
He cut his eyes to the side after Jim had gotten comfortable, wanting simply to capture the man in a relaxed state, before anything actually happened that could possibly taint that image. He crinkled his nose at Jim’s smooth delivery of the rather cheesy line, but cracked a smile anyway. He nodded his head knowingly as the man ordered his drink. He certainly did seem like a rum and coke type of person, and Sherlock wondered if he should order the same and give the impression that he actually did not know much about alcohol or try something entirely new. “White Russian,” he blurted out, drawing on his rather limited knowledge of popular drinks and narrowing it down to something that he might actually enjoy, as it did have a hint of coffee in it.  
  
His eyes followed Jim’s to the door and he smiled knowingly. “A bit paranoid, are we?” he teased, turning a bit in his seat to face Jim more, being hyper-aware of his body language and not wanting to come off as disinterested or closed off. “What, were you followed?” Which, in reality, was probably not a far-fetched idea for someone like Jim. Sherlock didn’t nearly worry about that as much, the main reason being John was always his eyes for that sort of thing. Then again, he was on his own, with a man he hardly trusted, so perhaps he should follow Jim’s lead and be a bit more cautious.  
  
-  
  
Jim nodded his thanks at the bartender who retreated to make the drinks, barely registering him, distracted by how it seemed Sherlock was doing a lot of smiling.  Why was that?  Maybe because he was out, and likely taking some joy in pulling fleece over John’s eyes, for if the good doctor knew who he was coming to meet, it wouldn’t have happened.  Jim had no frame of reference for Sherlock appearing contented.  Then again, the pool hadn’t been all smiles and rainbows.  Wasn’t supposed to be.  But the way Sherlock’s amusement tugged up the corners of his lips struck Jim as…well.  Pretty.  Rare.  Something he hadn’t quite earned, and definitely didn’t deserve.   
  
Jim let his gaze return to the door, neck rolling with a slow negating shake of the head.  “Not that I’m _aware_ of, but it pays to be cautious,” he explained simply.  It was two types of caution at once, for if he had other things to look at, he could resist staring too overtly at Sherlock.  It wasn’t that he was smitten…oh, self-made delusions were so comforting, of _course_ he was smitten.  Irene had damn near gotten her head ripped off once for daintily suggesting as much, and Sebastian had learned to keep his thoughts about it to himself.  Even when Jim denied it, there were good guessers - and then there was the very object of his affections, who took the opposite route and didn’t believe a word of it.  People were so odd.  
  
“I can think up a handful of fairly powerful or weapon-trained people who, let’s be frank, wouldn’t be too pleased at us sitting here together,” Jim elaborated with a sardonic smirk, hinting at Mycroft and John without using any names.  Unfolding his arms, he propped his left over the back of the chair, his attention on Sherlock again, who seemed, rather than the sort of suspicion that’d have been sensible, receptive.  “And one or two more,” he added thoughtfully, “who’d take pictures just to put in said people’s hands.”  
  
-  
  
Sherlock nodded gravely in understanding. Jim certainly knew about the state of current affairs, and he did need to be always vigilant considering his line of work. He couldn’t afford to be flippant, as Sherlock was more often than not, which had gotten him into trouble a few times. He shrugged, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hand. “I’m sure both John and Mycroft would have a field day and I’d be sent to my room for a week,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s nothing to get wound up about in the first place, hm? Just two people having a drink.” He straightened up again, directing his gaze to Jim. “It’s not as if we _always_ have to be at each other’s throat.”  
  
Or were they supposed to? Is that how it worked? Sherlock didn’t see a reason to be, and he wasn’t lying. If someone wanted to snap a scandalous picture of them, it wouldn’t really faze the detective. Besides, unless Jim had let slip something loose about their meeting, it was all on him if something happened. Sherlock certainly hadn’t told John and the other patrons of the bar didn’t seem too interested in the pair to Sherlock. Oh, John. Naive, caring John. Sherlock didn’t know what he would do if John did ever find out about this encounter, though he imagined it wouldn’t be too pleasant, considering his drinking partner had strapped a bombed jacket to his flatmate and it wasn’t unexpected to still have resentment over an incident such as that.  
  
As his drink was placed in front of him, Sherlock drank a liberal amount the first time, resisting the urge to grimace. Indulging on alcohol was simply not his forte and he would much rather stick with his tobacco ash. “I know you enjoy the game and all, but don’t you ever get tired of it?” he asked innocently, genuinely curious. No reason to waste time with pleasantries, though those were nice too. Jim knew exactly what he was getting when he invited Sherlock out and Sherlock had a goal, one that he would waste no time achieving. Perhaps he should have waited until a bit later into the night to ask that particular question, but it was out in the open now.  
  
-  
  
The thought of John ‘sending Sherlock to his room’, even metaphorically, sort of made Jim want to punch the doctor in the face, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.  He was himself fascinated with Sherlock’s very nature, that it seemed a pity to discourage any part of it.  It was a fleeting thought, replaced quickly by a derisive little snort at the throat comment.  “Isn’t it, though,” he muttered almost to himself, turning slightly to face the bar again, and suggested the bartender start them a tab.  It was impolite to pull out cash with bravado, and bravado was the best thing Jim had going for him in this moment.  Best defense, at any rate.  
  
That was exactly how it had to be.  And it wasn’t just the rules of cops and robbers, it was Their Game.  All they had between them, and could have.  Sherlock loved mysteries, and the second Jim Moriarty ceased to be a mystery, he was done for as Sherlock’s avid interest was concerned.  Sherlock saw him as another puzzle.  Perhaps the most challenging one yet.  Why risk ruining that for the sake of…drinks, like normal people?  The thought process showed on his face, putting a furrow in his brow and making his lips turn downward.  Carefully transferring the glass from right hand to left, his focus drifted from the bar to Sherlock’s glass, and the long line of his neck as he downed a quarter of it.  The criminal rolled his eyes at himself.  Gawking, that was it. _This_ was why they really shouldn’t spend time together.   
  
Sherlock had emphasized that Jim should try, and Jim had, certain there was no way in hell Sherlock would come out for a drink with him.  Why did Sherlock want to change the rules? Or did he at all?   
  
Jim laid the stupid little straw on the bar, and was about to sip from his glass when the rather alluring question was asked.  He paused, rim of the glass against his lower lip, and looked at Sherlock as if he were crazy for suggesting it.  Oh, sure, Jim could think of a few things he’d change, but he went instead for what he knew Sherlock could sympathize with.  “What’s the alternative?” he questioned, the glass moving away long enough to speak unmuffled by it, but with an attempt at quiet, ever conscious of the other patrons.  “No, really, tell me.  A regular job?  Some 9-5, or god, putting a good brain to…I don’t know, a socially acceptable use, like…a barrister?  A teacher?!”  This wasn’t just bravado, this was genuine disgust at the idea.  Still he was looking at Sherlock oddly, and chuckled, bringing the rum and coke back up to his lips.  “Don’t bore me, darling,” Jim requested, and took a healthy swig of the carbonated liquid courage.  He swallowed and glanced at Sherlock for an answer, hoping to keep them on this track.  One more distant and imaginary than the strange reality they’d created for themselves.  For each other.   
  
-  
  
Perhaps one of the most fascinating things Sherlock found about Jim was his way to make him see things in a completely different manner, or see something that he himself had simply skipped over. He mulled over the man’s answer in his mind as he absent-mindedly swirled the liquid in his glass around. It took him a few seconds at the most to realise that Jim was absolutely right. Where would Sherlock be, if he had never decided to go down this path and created his job? Let alone, if Jim had never made an appearance? Would he still even have the incentive to continue on doing what he did, if not to keep his incessant boredom at bay? He couldn’t think of an existence more dreadful than spending every waking hour in an office or some restaurant, and the thought gently shook him.  
  
Then again, their harmless game sometimes made him worse for the wear, times when Sherlock barely got a lick of sleep or barely ate. He welcomed the breaks between the puzzles, even though he found himself half way through wishing for more. He pulled himself away from his trailing thoughts, back to the conversation. “No, I suppose you’re right, he admitted, then sucked in a breath. “Who knows what kind of dreadful lives we’d be living.” He regretfully took another drink from his glass, starting to become annoyed with the slight burn that came up his throat every time he took a swig. “I just thought it would get awfully boring for you at times.” Maybe he should have stopped at that point rather than continuing on, or at the very least, changed the subject to something completely unrelated and light-hearted. He eyed the criminal, fixing him with an intense look. “Same old, same old. Never getting caught. Other people doing the dirty work. Seems as if it would get old quickly.”  
  
Picking up his drink from the bar, Sherlock turned to face Jim directly, crossing his legs and straightening himself in his seat. He smiled slyly, holding the glass up to his lips for a few seconds before continuing. “It must take a lot of dedication to want to create chaos for a living.” He ended his soliloquy by finishing the rest of the drink, placing the now empty glass back on the bar.  
  
-  
  
Jim had become so accustomed to harsh truths, that he never thought twice about delivering them.  He anticipated the resigned sigh, and liked before that how Sherlock still appeared keen and present while thinking, a brief pause between planes.  Jim liked to linger too long in ideas, but Sherlock was precise and practical - was was part of why one of them made the messes, and the other cleaned them up.  Action and Reaction.  Question and Answer.  One played the cards life dealt, that was all.  Jim was sure if the Fates looked over their old records, something had been misfiled along the way.   
  
When Sherlock’s attention returned, it seemed somehow sharper, going straight for Jim’s boredom. Not a tremendously difficult thing to suss out, considering Sherlock was afflicted with the same, but Jim only rose an eyebrow at it, taking another slow sip of the spiked Coke and appreciated whatever muted excitement was evident in the way the bright blue eyes seemed impossibly brighter.  Subconsciously, Jim was charmed.  
  
But at their face value, Sherlock’s words were utterly predictable.  The criminal’s mental haunches were not easy to soothe, and at the first sign of shop talk, Jim lowered the glass to rest between folded hands over his lap.  Sherlock’s voice was strangely musical, maybe because it kept going.  Liked to hear himself talk, Jim observed, but not with annoyance.  If Sherlock _was_ fishing for work details - what else could he want? - he’d be disappointed.  He couldn’t accuse Sherlock of asking questions.  No, the consulting detective was merely doing what he was known for: really fucking good guesses.  Jim wouldn’t deny it for bravado’s sake, because rising to any challenge of proof would be telling.  Jim had an empire to look out for, after all. Gaze unwavering, Jim noted Sherlock’s smile, which only encouraged one of his own.  “With all the thought you’ve given it, one would think you’re itching to switch sides.”. The clink of the glass drew his attention but he didn’t look towards it, his gaze fixed on Sherlock’s face, searching for any sign that Jim had shaken his nerve.   
  
-  
  
Oh, that was rich. That was truly rich. Sherlock let out a rare low chuckle, surprised that Jim was one, completely unfazed by his questions and two, offered a sudden rebuttal himself. Jim’s words were quite true, no matter how much Sherlock didn’t want to admit it. One look at Jim and the having the knowledge of his line of work, and nearly anyone would want to follow in the same path. Anyone who wasn’t exactly morally set in their ways, anyways, as it took a distinct lack of them in order to carry out with efficiency what Jim did on a daily basis. Sherlock himself could have easily slipped down that path in the beginning, should he have wished to, if he hadn’t had those pesky moral things. Jim was utterly charming, self-sufficient and independent, save for that sniper of his, and was aware of exactly what he wanted and how to get it. Sherlock was, well, manipulative, dependent, especially on John, and didn’t really have a set goal of what he wanted. He admired that immensely about the consulting criminal.  
  
He finally snapped out of his thoughts and nodded his head absent-mindedly. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.” He gave a wistful sigh to punctuate his thoughts. “If I did that now, I suppose you’d still be my rival, eh?” He raised an eyebrow in curiosity, thinking about that sentiment. Surely there couldn’t be two consulting criminals. There could only be one and one opposite to that, which is exactly why Sherlock was content being the opposite to Jim. It worked better for the both of them that way and if there was one thing Sherlock enjoyed, it was familiarity and order in his life. He knew exactly what he was doing as a detective, he made the job himself, and he was going to stick to it. Though the thought of the other side was certainly appealing, especially if it meant working alongside or even opposite Jim, he simply could never make the change.  
  
“And of course, _you_ would never come to the side of the angels.” No, that would probably bore the man to death. Everyone being nice to each other and no one committing murders. Oh, Jim would be done with it in a day. The thought was amusing to Sherlock and he let out another chuckle, softer than before.  
  
-  
  
Sherlock had no idea how disarming he could be, simply by being disarmed.  His laughter struck Jim as lovely, and something he wouldn’t mind hearing more often if circumstances were different.  Jim could idly dream at those differences without ever setting them into motion.  That was part of what made him so good for his job.  Jim was impatient day-to-day but had infinite patience as the bigger picture was concerned, and where anyone else might have balked and admitted boredom or worse under Sherlock’s steady gaze, Jim could hold out, easy.  It wasn’t that the detective wasn’t trying. Sherlock was a formidable potential true adversary, yes, no discredit to the man’s mind, but the surroundings of a nice little bar in Brick Lane didn’t have the same formidable air.  And that was why Jim could protect his secrets, all while letting himself be secretly delighted with the sound of Sherlock’s laugh.   
  
He had not been lying about being conflicted.  
  
Jim lifted his glass again, the rum making him shiver slightly when he swallowed.  He was nursing his, wisely, though Sherlock hadn’t.  Jim suspected Sherlock hadn’t enjoyed it much but would withhold suggestions until ordering another round.  Suggestions only, of course.  He wouldn’t order _for_ Sherlock.  This wasn’t a date.  Even if the lovely man with the lovely laugh was asking him whether they’d still be rivals. Jim had only ever given it so much thought - why want the impossible? - but he would indulge theoretical fantasy for the hell of it, eyes roaming to the ceiling in thought. No, they’d be on the same team, wouldn’t they? God.  Jim laughed softly despite himself.  Now there was a surefire recipe for chaos if ever he heard one.  
  
If Sherlock hadn’t been fishing, maybe that had been all he wanted to hear: that Jim was bored, that he sympathized entirely with how solitary intelligence could be.  But it wasn’t exactly in his job description to ease Sherlock’s fears. The ones that said all the ‘freaks’ were doomed to be alone in the world.  Hell.  Sherlock had John.  Maternal, pissy little soldier-man, who cared about him.  Sherlock was less alone than Jim was.  Oh, sure, Jim had Sebastian, but Seb was paid to be on his side.  John was there because he wanted to be.  Sometimes Jim envied John his proximity to Sherlock, but he wasn’t about to say so.  Neither of their soldiers really understood them besides.  He’d told Sherlock once through a human mouthpiece that they were made for each other - Sherlock hadn’t denied it, hadn’t claimed it an impossibility.  Had merely wanted this to stay between the two of them.  And now, here they were.   
  
Jim debated asking Sherlock how he imagined the criminal spent his days, but negating any bad guesses would again be dangerously revealing as business was concerned.  “Little late for that,” Jim agreed, shaking his head before downing more of the drink.  “Because even if I did, nobody would believe me.” Sherlock couldn’t challenge that.  “You, though…” Jim’s eyebrows rose, “The world wants to believe the worst about you.” The criminal said this matter-of-factly, tongue passing over his lower lip where a drop of the rum had remained.  “That’s why you’re not coming to the dark side anytime soon.  You’re too in love with proving everybody wrong.”  Faint amusement showed in Jim’s smile.  Bravado was one thing, but genuine defendable pride was for the young and brash.   
  
-  
  
If anything, Sherlock was completely and utterly jealous of how truly unflappable Jim was. Or, at least, his skills of making himself appear to be that way. Sherlock himself was not an emotional person, not in the slightest. But he was human, and unfortunately, he wasn’t able to turn those annoying things off and they had a rather irritating way of creeping up at the most inopportune times. Such as now. When Sherlock was supposed to be focusing on the man in front of him and not the drink in his lap. He consciously averted his gaze to Jim’s eyes, hoping it would remain there for the time being. Yes, sometimes, he just couldn’t help it and a tiny hint of fear or worry would slip through. But Jim’s face was an ever-remaining mask, a constant poker face. Nothing ever did get to him and Sherlock was beginning to want to take that challenge head on. He knew if anyone was able to do it, it would be him. Jim would certainly put up a fight, but that would only add to Sherlock’s fun.  
  
Putting aside those thoughts for the moment, Sherlock broke into a full-on, unabashed smile. How Jim managed to tell Sherlock things about himself that he himself did not know or realise was uncanny. Of course, Sherlock would never tell him this. “You’re right,” he affirmed, nodding his head. Alright, maybe he would. “However, when you’re suspected as the murderer so many times, it wouldn’t be too difficult to pull it off once and have none the wiser.” Did that just come out of his own mouth? He would definitely have to watch that. Wouldn’t want to give the impression that he was planning a murder any time soon.  
  
Though, if he /was/ going to plan one, he would obviously draw on what homicides he had encountered, most of those being works of art performed by his drinking partner and simply tweak it a bit. The thought had of course appealed to him a number of times, and he did entertain the possible reality that could have happened had he chosen it. He imagined it was basically the same day-to-day routine he currently had, except with more planning and phone calls, perhaps. He wouldn’t have incompetent detective inspectors and their annoying forensic teams nipping at his heels. Then again, he wouldn’t have John, either.  
  
He would have somebody else. Every hero or villain needed a partner, after all. If John hadn’t have come, someone else would have taken his place. He would have found another flat mate, perhaps not as willing to participate in his activities, but he would have found one. John simply got that particular position first. He was entirely grateful to John, as he probably would have gotten himself killed or worse by now, and he owed him his life once or twice. Sherlock wondered if Jim had anyone in his life like that. Probably not, as he would sooner give up his entire empire than owe his life to someone. Even to his sniper. “Ever get lonely?” he asked as casually as possible, barely above a murmur.  
  
-  
  
The criminal hadn’t meant his comments as anything other than observation - not good or bad, merely true.  He wasn’t expecting Sherlock to grin so broadly, and Jim marveled inwardly how it changed his entire face.  God, life would be simpler if Sherlock wasn’t so _pretty_.  Jim wasn’t particularly shallow; it was Sherlock’s brain that really appealed, but the package it came in was always an arresting sight.  Could sit next to him here all night and never quite get accustomed.  He tilted his head in a small acquiescing gesture, raising the glass in a silent ‘cheers to that’ before finishing the last of it off with a long, thoughtful swig.  Cheers to chaos, cheers to death!  These things were universal inevitabilities, no matter how men like Sherlock tried to stop them.  Only, Sherlock was different.  He never did want it to /stop/, per se, so long as he could have a good look at the aftermath.  He wasn’t in it for the good.  He was in it for the challenge, the science, the grotesque.  Jim admired that.  It took a strong stomach, and a partially twisted mind. What the world called twisted, anyway, and the world could be a thoroughly stupid place.   
  
His short-clipped nails tapped absentmindedly against the now empty glass, eyes flitting to the door again out of habit, until the question called his focus, if not his gaze, back. Well, well.  Why should Sherlock wonder?  Was it mere projection, or something like caring?  Jim’s nostrils had flared slightly at the question and he blinked, but his expression was distant, almost appearing as if he hadn’t heard it.  He had a choice here.  There was always a conscious choice between half-truth or all of it, or avoidance altogether.  It was very hard to avoid Sherlock’s questions as he’d done the other night, when the man was sitting right there, and looking at him with those /eyes/.  So often they made observations, for those could be seen as hostile or topic-turning, but this was a direct question. About him, personally, not his business.  That made it, as he figured, a little safer to answer - didn’t it?  But he was dealing with someone as wonderfully manipulative as himself.  No matter how much he might want Sherlock, it didn’t justify caving.  Maybe Jim was more prey to his own pride than he’d reckoned.  
  
What could Sherlock want, by asking? What could Jim achieve by answering honestly?  These were two points which seemed disturbingly foggy in a mind that usually saw everything clearly.  Jim’s shoulders rose in a small shrug, and blinking again, his attention returned to the other’s face only in passing as he swiveled slightly in the chair.  “Doesn’t everyone?” he asked in reply, placing his empty glass on the bar, his knee brushing Sherlock’s in the process of moving.  It was entirely accidental, barely a brush of fabric, and over as soon as it had happened.  But it sent a tiny thrill through him all the same.  Jim spotted the bartender at the far end, and scooted both glasses further away, hoping for the interruption a refill would provide.  Because, jesus.  He glanced back to Sherlock, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, expectant, wanting very much to hear his answer.   
  
-  
  
Had Jim not told Sherlock his suspicions of being followed, and had this been something more than having drinks with an enemy, Sherlock would have said that he was being ignored. The moment he saw Jim’s eyes flick to the door again, his followed and he slowly smiled. No, of course, that was the opposite. The criminal was looking out for the both of them, which was rather sweet. Perhaps unnecessary, as Sherlock hadn’t felt any eyes lingering on the two of them at any time, but still thoughtful. In fact, if someone potentially dangerous did happen to walk in at that moment, all they would have seen was the two talking. And they wouldn’t even know what the conversation was about - it could be about weapons and death threats, for all they knew. That was probably what people would assume they talk about, anyway, as those were the topics of most of their previous encounters. Sherlock assumed they were safe for now as he turned back to face the bar.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t help but notice the long amount of time between his asking of a question and Jim’s answering of said question, indicating that he was obviously giving each answer a great consideration before actually vocalising it. He couldn’t fault Jim for doing this, as he did have quite a lot of secrets to keep and more at stake than the detective did. It was intriguing to watch his mind work, the blinks and the pauses before he finally answered. Ah, a typical response. He watched as Jim swiveled to turn back to facing the bar, about to vocalise his reply. Feeling the ever-so-slight bump on his knee, he glanced down, brushing off the contact instantly.  
  
He narrowed his eyes slightly as his eyes fell back on Jim’s face, somewhat perplexed in noticing the change of expression. He dismissed it for the time being, lightly shrugging his shoulders as he followed the glasses down the bar. “Not if they don’t wish to be,” he mused, realising that that sounded strange, but it was the truth. Sherlock could be lonely if he really wanted to, by kicking John out and ignoring Mrs. Hudson. It was a choice, being lonely, one that Sherlock wondered if Jim had made himself.  
  
-  
  
And there went Sherlock again with his motivational speaking!  Jim sneered lightly, but couldn’t fault him for it.  Every thought anyone had in their heads was always a matter of personal perspective, and it was easier for Sherlock, wasn’t it?  Academic, eccentric, machinesque to a social fault, yes - but always brutally _himself_ , and it still brought him company.  It wasn’t as if any of Sherlock’s company really understood.  Genius was always lonely. But if it was a matter of not wishing to be, Sherlock was at least trying.  People stayed, stood by him, protected him, because he was doing something with his beautiful brain that amounted to good.   
  
Jim didn’t have that luxury, and it wasn’t just a matter of work.  When his mother had passed from cancer, what did his father’s emotional distance do, but prove to Jim that he, himself, was the only one he could trust for things?  He’d been a precocious and bookish boy, not without friends, but how could other children understand, after that?  He’d known sorrow their tiny minds couldn’t wrap around.  It was all his to carry and own.  And while people may have said he wasn’t alone in it, nobody went so far as to prove it.  When he’d wept at school and Carl and his mates had laughed, it changed everything.  If death wanted to whisper at the boy, Jim would whisper back.  If he couldn’t get away from it, he’d make it his armor.   
  
And he had, thus becoming someone who had secrets.  While at the lunch table people shared their secrets, mostly regarding crushes or which test they’d cheated on, Jim’s were too big and terrifying to divulge, and it could ruin his very future to do so.  He made up lesser secrets, trifles, and repeated them until he himself believed them.  He learned about people, from watching and listening, and having learned the power behind fear and sorrow, knew the lengths normal people would go to to avoid them.  But that had not been a choice Jim had made, and when scholarly pursuits led to technology, he found he liked it.  Enough to learn its languages, for they never required any of his own words.  Enough to delve into hacking, and begin to open the back doors of the world that most people didn’t know were there.  He’d always been clever, but was he clever enough to cause trouble for the sake of having nothing better to do on the weekends?  
  
It helped having few morals.  It helped that he understood people well enough to make easy work of networking.  One thing lead to another, as was always the case with time and existence, and the rest was history.  Ancient, in fact.  Old news that Mr. Busybody Holmes had no reason to know or wonder at.  Certainly, from time to time, the essence of Loneliness was a thorn in his side.  But even now, sitting here with Sherlock, he couldn’t say so.  Too used to it.  There was nothing remarkable to Jim about it whatsoever, and Sherlock only really liked remarkable things.  There was a futility in wanting Sherlock to like him, because discord was much more interesting, more honest, more primal even when it was dressed up in class and English politeness.  Even now there was loneliness - Sherlock alone in his pursuit of information, and Jim alone in his pursuit of Sherlock.  So the criminal’s sneer stayed on his lips awhile, until the bartender arrived.  “Rum and coke again,” he spoke up, and turned to Sherlock.  “Malibu and Sprite, if you like fruity, or a Screwdriver,” he suggested conversationally before uncrossing his legs, and slipping from the chair.  “I’ll be back,” Jim said, and without further ado left to locate the men’s room.  Might as well lose some of the rum before having more.  And he needed a goddamn minute to figure out how, why, for what possible purpose under god, Sherlock Holmes was getting to him. 


	5. The Most Pretentious Thing Since I Thought You And Me

And that would mean a yes. Sherlock smiled to himself knowingly. He should have expected that Jim would not be willing to open up, personally or otherwise, least of all to someone like Sherlock. The man was an extremely rare creature, one that the detective had never come across before, which is why his curiosity was so piqued. He would never have another opportunity with another person like Jim, and so he would obviously take advantage of it. But he knew he was being slightly aggressive with his questions, so he would have to definitely pull it back a bit. Let the criminal warm up to him, if it was even possible. Because with someone like Jim, if Sherlock was to bombard him with all of these queries, he would most likely be pushed away and possibly burned for it.  
  
Sherlock had no problem simply being around the man, anyway. While they were texting, it was impossible to see Jim’s body language, and his expressions, and how he reacted to different things, which were all things that were very useful to Sherlock. Seeing someone and taking the time to observe them as they moved and behaved was indispensable. The first time they met, at St. Bart’s, Sherlock had taken one look at him and had him figured out. Or, the rather accurate and well-researched disguise he had put together, anyway. Not Jim himself but rather ‘Jim from I.T.’. Ever since their encounter, and before their little pow wow at the pool, Sherlock had wondered what would the results had been had he indeed called Jim. What did he want from the detective, anyway? He could have left the same impression even without the number, though maybe it was a little hint to help Sherlock come to the conclusion. Jim truly must have been a master of disguise, considering he had fooled Molly. Though that in itself wasn’t a very difficult task to achieve.  
  
Yes, it was about time for another drink, Sherlock thought. He glanced to Jim as he offered a less robust drink, a suggestion that Sherlock would take gladly. Thank god for the consulting criminal-slash-cocktail waitress. He ordered the Malibu and Sprite, hoping that the next round would be a bit easier on his throat, and nodded absent-mindedly as Jim announced his leaving. Sherlock was alright in that department for now, though he would definitely have to make a trip later on in the evening. That or Jim was making his escape, in which case Sherlock would not blame him, though that was highly unlikely.  
  
Once the man came back, Sherlock would ease off a bit, enjoy his drink a bit more slowly and simply try to enjoy the evening. He pulled out his phone as he was waiting, already finding two messages from John. The detective had told him that he would be out late and not to wait up, but the doctor was, of course, not going to listen to him. He opened the first one, a simple ‘where are you?’ lighting up the screen. The second one was informing him of some bloke he didn’t care about on the telly, and Sherlock switched off his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket without replying. Thank god John was quite easily amused or he could be in a lot more trouble.  
  
-  
  
Washing his hands, Jim rolled his eyes at himself.  This had been a thoroughly silly idea, thinking they could sit and talk like ordinary people.  Part of him loved the concept.  Wanted Sherlock’s philosophies, thoughts.  In practice, it wasn’t agitating, but…something.  Some new kind of annoying he couldn’t put his finger on, but how much of that annoyance was simply with himself?  His walls, oh-so-necessary, were proving quite the stumbling block.  Sherlock getting to know him, wasn’t that something he wanted?  Maybe he was just tired of being on guard.  Just one rum and coke could leave a person feeling tired of that.  
  
Strangely, though, he didn’t want to end the night early.  The world might not give them many chances like this, and Jim, while resolved to caution, couldn’t for the sake of caution ignore the more pleasant side.  That just seeing Sherlock, hearing his voice, was pleasant enough.  What else would he be doing?  Sorting out security men for the Chinese shipment.  Yeah, okay, this was decidedly better than that.  He secured his expensive watch back around his wrist, and when it occurred to him that he’d left his phone in his coat, unwatched in the vicinity of Sherlock, the possibilities made Jim feel uneasy.  Just what he needed, Sherlock taking off with the motherlode of criminal contacts.  Christ!  Stupid, stupid.  Deplorable behavior for a paranoiac of his calibre.  
  
Meandering back to the bar, Jim smirked to see Sherlock’s phone.  The added light gave new dimensions to his ridiculous cheekbones, and the criminal rolled his eyes again, most dramatically, before asking, “Mother Watson checking in?” He smiled as he passed his hand over the coat on his chair, feeling discreetly for the phone - still there.  Good, good.  Perhaps he could trust the nosy sonofabitch a little, after all.  Jim considered peering over Sherlock’s shoulder just to be ingratiating but leisurely took his seat, deciding that Close really wasn’t desirable.  Yet it was.  Well, so what if his mind changed every five minutes about it.  He’d told Sherlock he was changeable.   
  
-  
  
Jim’s arrival back to his seat made Sherlock sit up in attention, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. He relaxed a bit, scoffing at the man’s question. “Unfortunately. He thinks it’s my bed time.” He rolled his eyes for effect, half-joking, half-serious. Why John couldn’t just listen to him for once was beyond him and a bit annoying. Sherlock didn’t need John always nipping at his heels; he was a grown man, after all. Sure, they were…buddies, and all that, but there came a time when Sherlock simply wanted to be left to his own devices. John had Sarah, or, he was still supposed to, the last time Sherlock had checked. If not, he was perfectly capable of going out and having a good time. Without Sherlock at his hip.  
  
Another question prodded its way to the front of the detective’s mind, and he opened his mouth to vocalise it, but remembered his plan for the rest of the evening and instead closed it and sat back with a warm smile. Already, Jim seemed to be a bit more relaxed or at the very least, seemed to not want to leave as soon as possible, which Sherlock counted as an improvement. Of course, he was doing all he could to make the other man feel as comfortable as possible, albeit subtly. He wasn’t looking over every inch of Jim, or making deductions at any point, though he could still do that and not actually voice them. Hell, he hadn’t even searched Jim’s possessions to check for any potential weapons. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him to do so, which said a lot about his trust for the criminal. Non-existent trust that should not have even been there in the first place. Jim could exterminate everyone in the entire bar and Sherlock would be none the wiser.  
  
He glanced over in the direction of the bartender, becoming momentarily distracted and painfully aware that he needed a drink at his lips or he would try to ask another question. Once they were prepared, he picked the two glasses up, keeping his to himself and offering Jim’s drink with an extended arm, smirking softly.  
  
-  
  
Jim gave a noncommittal ‘mm’ at the jest.  With what he could gather from Sherlock’s sleeping habits, bedtime was hours off if not tomorrow, but John was a sore point Jim didn’t feel like poking at just now.  It was the fastest way to return the favor of quickly-reconstructed walls.  To have a go at John once was enough.  Clearly, if Jim really did grace Sherlock’s darkest dreams, it had left the intended impression.   
  
The heels of his fine Italian shoes found the lower rung of the seat and steadied against it, his right knee bouncing idly as the drinks were brought out.  In truth he wasn’t so sure about having a second, so quickly, with Sherlock around, but as it was deeply ingrained to avoid work details, what, really, did he have to lose?  The loneliness, maybe, for a little while.  What a laugh.   
  
Jim had been about to reach for his drink when he saw Sherlock’s fingers curl around it, and noted the smirk.  “Oh, well, grazie, darling,” Jim said, drawing the r’s in ‘darling’ out comically, re-centering himself in the flirtatious way he guessed, hoped, left Sherlock wondering.  Wondering was always safer than knowing.  Whatever they were playing at tonight, it could be alright, Jim reasoned, as long as it was still just playing.  He took the glass from the lower half, for Sherlock’s fingers were nearer the top, and Jim’s voice was soft and amusedly thoughtful.  “To what do we toast?” he asked.  They had forgotten to before, and Jim wanted Sherlock to pick it, lest he spout off anything along the lines of ‘rare gem’ ever again in his life.  That had been a bad night.   
  
-  
  
In truth, Sherlock was not entirely sure why he had actually picked up Jim’s drink and handed it to him rather than simply letting the man retrieve his own glass. He thought about it, letting his fingers linger in the air for a second before drawing his hand back after processing that the drink had been accepted. It’s certainly not something he would have done normally, with anyone. If Jim had done that, he would have side-eyed him immensely and gone full-blown into deduction mode. For now, though, he would brush it off and be more aware of his actions from now on. He couldn’t afford to have a slip-up with the most dangerous criminal in London. He could end up dead, or, even worse, the laughing stock of the city.  
  
Jim’s question made him rack his brain at first, trying to think of something that would be worthy. What would be important enough to have a toast ever? First, though, he stopped and wondered exactly why they were going to toast in the first place. Enemies didn’t exactly have anything to toast nor celebrate over, did they? ‘Here’s to murder? Chaos?’ “Staying alive,” Sherlock blurted out, then immediately shut his mouth, eyes widening. Oh, now that was just /stupid/. Jim’s annoying disco ringtone was the first thing to pop into the detective’s mind? Where had that even come from and why did he even remember it? Before he could stop himself, a muted chuckle burst forth before turning into a quiet laugh. “Sorry.” Nevertheless, he held his glass raised in the air between the two of them, fixing Jim with an expectant look.  
  
-  
  
Oh, of all the things!  Jim had to smile.  Sweet, wasn’t it?  That Sherlock would call upon the little details.  Perhaps to endear himself, but unfortunately for Jim’s resolve, he really wouldn’t have to try terribly hard.  His free hand waved the apology away with a dismissing flourish.   
  
“Oh, don’t be; really it’s a wonder we both have - so far,” he agreed almost musically, though the last two words held just enough weight so as to anchor them to the reality of things.  They were alive today, yes, but who ever knew about tomorrow?  Who ever knew when Jim might tire of Sherlock, or of himself, to do something about it?  He fixed problems, not let them waltz in and overtake the entire production.  Jim, himself, was the production.  If Sherlock really had any idea how many  
  
He inclined his glass towards the one in the detective’s hand, eyes following it, ears piqued for the clink.  It was light but made a sound all the same, and Jim indulged himself in a quick sip before swirling the glass in his hand, elbow resting upon the bar as he watched Sherlock with his.  He did wonder whether the drink wasn’t beginning to effect the dear detective, if the BeeGees were really all they had to toast to, but Jim liked moments where he could watch people, instead of being asked things.   
  
Long violinst fingers, delicate enough for precise science, drew Jim’s gaze, and he remembered at the sight of them what had made him text Sherlock to begin with, that drowsy night a minor eternity ago.  “So, any more nightmares about me?” Jim asked casually, because if one wanted to confuse Sherlock Holmes, one only need flirt with him.  The criminal told himself it meant nothing, nothing at all, other than defense.  Confusing him was more fun than feeling confused by him.  
  
-  
  
So, his silly little burst of excitement seemed to be accepted by the other party. Sherlock smiled, breathing a sigh of relief. He couldn’t recall a time when he had smiled this much and his face was beginning to grow a bit sore from doing so. He was worried Jim would have scoffed, or gotten up, or, even worse, called him stupid. Such was the precocious ego of the delicate Sherlock Holmes. “Yes…”  
  
“Nightmares? How did…” The query made him think, lifting a hand to place on his chin. How had Jim known about those? “Oh, yes, of course.” Right, Sherlock had told him. Over texting. Perhaps that was not the best move. “Hm…” he resounded, thinking long and hard about the innocent enough question. Of course Jim was vain enough to wonder if he had invaded Sherlock’s unconscious lately. There was the one with John, John making more frequent appearances, though Sherlock chalked that up to simply spending more time with the man. Familiarity, and all that. Maybe that wouldn’t be the best one to tell him, lest he get any ideas. Then there was the one with… “Water,” Sherlock revealed, vocalising the last of his thoughts. “You were drowning me, I think. It was fairly fuzzy.” He raised the glass to his lips, taking another drink but swirling it around for a second before swallowing. That wasn’t too revealing, was it? Jim didn’t seem like the type to get ideas of murder through dreams, though perhaps it didn’t help to at least give him a few good pointers on how to achieve said goal.   
  
-  
  
He watched Sherlock remember, the bright eyes narrow then widen before hitting upon it, and understood one thing, all of a sudden; this was definitely better than impersonal technology.  His expression made for genuine forgetfulness.  This was important, for if it took Sherlock so long to recall why he asked, Jim knew the other placed the messages at a lower importance, perhaps taking them less than seriously.  Well, good - there were some in which Jim had been all too honest, and the distance hid it well.  Best forgotten, weren’t they?   
  
At the description of this new dream, Jim’s smile broadened.  His eyes flicked up in thought, working it out - no, no, drowning would never do.  It was the direct opposite of burning.  “Mm, a little…illogical,” he pronounced at last, leaning back against the seat again.  “I’m certain you can swim, or you wouldn’t have pulled that trick laat year, with the boat and the dwarf and the arrows…”  That case hadn’t been on the blog, in order to protect identities and fortunes, but Jim Moriarty knew.  He’d kept the straw this time, stirring the drink idly, to have something to do with otherwise idle hands.  His voice lowered slightly, so as to prevent eavesdropping.    “What sort of poison was in those darts, anyway?” He’d wondered, was all.   
  
-  
  
Upon hearing the man’s comment, Sherlock scoffed a bit, looking at him with skepticism in his features. “Are dreams ever logical?” he mused, half-rhetorically, half truly wanting an explanation. He wasn’t expecting one, as Jim was neither a dream interpreter nor a psychologist. That was quite a frightening thought, Jim giving /any/ sort of advice or trying to help other people with their problems. Though, when Sherlock thought about it, people did go to him when they needed their problems fixed or for them to disappear. It was different, though. Their problems weren’t psychological, they were easily solved with a bit of Jim’s expertise.  
  
The detective watched the criminal’s expression practically light up as he revealed the contents of the dream, shaking his head and smiling. Yes, Jim was one of those people who delighted in hearing about themselves, no matter who it was from or what it was about. He chuckled at the memory, vaguely recalling it at first but remembering it vividly thanks to Jim’s descriptions. He noted the man’s drop in volume, leaning in slightly closer so as to hear him. He straightened up at the question, taking a sip from his glass. “Curare, I believe,” he murmured back in an equal register, then fixed Jim with an intense glare. “Why? Planning to kill via poison darts?” It wasn’t a totally bogus idea, least of all for Jim, who had quite a twisted yet imaginative range of homicide devices.  
  
-  
  
Oh, he liked that Sherlock had leaned in to hear him.  Might keep that in mind, how that worked.  The music wasn’t particularly offensive, but the bar ha gathered a few more patrons since they’d arrived, and the background chatter had risen in volume.  Curare made perfect sense, of course.  Jim was about to say so, until Sherlock’s expression warranted an eyebrow raise.  My, but there was such ice in the stare that Jim thought it genuine, and realized he preferred the smiles.  “Now, now, don’t get your bedsheets in a twist,” Jim smirked, glancing down at the drink as he stirred it, a little sigh leaving his lips.  Poison darts, how primal.  Unexpected, late to be detected, maybe, but the close range factor was disappointing enough to rule them out.  But that wasn’t the important part.   
  
“I’m just thinking aloud, dear,” Jim assured him, frowning slightly as he watched his own hands with the glass.  It seemed to him they were moving slower than it felt, a sign that the alcohol was having some effect.  Jim wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, though he felt warmer and calmer for it, gaining a little ground, too, in having riled Sherlock’s suspicions.  “Even if I were planning on it, it’d be silly to tell you as much,” he continued nonchalantly, gaze rising again to Sherlock’s face.  “It would rather spoil the game, don’t you think?” His confidence appeared to have returned full-force, now that they were on familiar topics like plans and murder, instead of unremarkable common things like loneliness.  Perhaps it was Sherlock’s glare that had done it, given Jim something more predictable than the smiles, which he was aware threw him off insofar as they were dazzling, and therefore dangerous to his precious resolve.   
  
-  
  
Now that was a rather strange turn of phrase. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and backed off a bit, returning to his own little cloud of personal space. He couldn’t help his suspicions. After all, Jim /was/ a criminal above everything else and Sherlock was a detective. Any amount of late-night texting and innocent drinks couldn’t change that. Though, Sherlock was a bit touched to see that Jim was interested enough to even remember details of his cases, even ones that John hadn’t put up on his inane blog. It was a little startling to think of how he was able to come across those details, considering it was fairly low-key, but touching nonetheless. Jim certainly did have a vain, self-centered personality about him, but Sherlock himself had a fairly large ego as well and was fully aware of it and ready to indulge it.  
  
Another scoff escaped from his lips and he let out a breathy chuckle. Had Jim forgotten the first time that they’d met? “I seem to recall you telling me lots of your plans before they were put into action,” he remarked, raising the glass and nonchalantly taking a sip. “Granted, they were through a dummy, but still telling, nonetheless. Does that mean my heart is safe from your grasp for now?” he asked playfully, turning his gaze to the criminal, smirking. Another one of the dramatics from Jim Moriarty, that threat there. It was fairly startling at first, but as Sherlock had relayed to him at the time, he had been reliably informed by many parties that he did not have one. Not that he really believed them, he just didn’t let it show as much, as the ordinary people so enjoyed. Crying, laughing, and all that. As his dear older brother had informed him, caring was not an advantage.  
  
-  
  
“I gave you _clues_ ,” Jim corrected him lightly,  not adding aloud that Sherlock would have floundered without them, because that was insulting, and not quite true.  He might have missed the allotted deadlines, and so secondhandedly allowed further havoc to be wreaked upon innocents, but it didn’t seem particularly as if Sherlock minded so much.  And actually, as Jim recalled, he’d done as much flirting as dropping helpful hints, but trust Sherlock to ignore that part entirely.  The criminal wasn’t about to remind him.  Repeating himself was tiresome in any case, but every attempt only increased his certainty that he was talking to a brick wall.  Sherlock’s priorities in life, the things that he wanted, were quite clear.  That Jim was able to provide the cases, the adrenaline, that was what the detective cared about.   
  
Jim shrugged, and finally stopped stirring long enough to take another sip, considering the words Sherlock had used.  The only way Jim would ever hold his heart was in the literal sense of grasping - still-beating, bloody in his hands.  Burning or breaking offered more options than that.  Sherlock’s smirk was too lighthearted to take the words seriously, besides, and Jim managed to deadpan, “You’d do well to expect a conflagration.” He looked away when he uttered it, though, as the words didn’t hold the weight of a threat.  Perhaps that made it worse, for Jim to say them like a given, some nothing he’d carry out without thinking twice.  Sherlock had to realize by now it wasn’t that easy, nor so infallibly etched in the stars.  Jim’s plans always left room for variables, wisely, because there were always variables.  Jim could only predict and be sure of so much, as regarded the object of his twisted affections.   
  
-  
  
“What sort of enemy gives _clues_?” Sherlock inquired, laughing. Perhaps that was a bit insensitive, but it did truly baffle him. Sherlock knew deep down that Jim could beat him if he wanted to. He could lead him on, then throw him in the wrong direction, then kill him if he truly desired it. That Jim actually kept him around was nothing short of a miracle, in Sherlock’s eyes. It wasn’t that Jim was more clever than he, though he did have a fighting chance of being so, but that Sherlock was more impulsive. He didn’t plan things out as much as he could, and most times he just did whatever he thought would be a quick fix for his boredom coupled with the illusion that what he was doing was the right course of action. John had proved that wrong a number of times, but he still did it.  
  
The next words out of the criminal’s mouth were enough to chill Sherlock down to his bones. The only way he showed this was a flash of surprise, a quick side glance to Jim before looking away just as fast. Often times, it slipped his racing mind how truly terrifying Jim could be. Even with vague threats, the way that it had been delivered made the man seem entirely serious. It was on the edge of his voice and Sherlock barely caught it, making it all the more nerve wracking. He should have known, and expected it, following the aftermath of the encounter at the pool. Jim could put on an innocent persona one minute and completely destroy it the next. He brought a slightly shaking glass to his lips, steadying it as he took a drink. “Suppose I’ll need an extinguisher, then,” he murmured jokingly, swallowing hard. “Bit of warning would be nice when it strikes your fancy.”  
  
-  
  
There it was.  The flash of fear, which was on Sherlock’s face so much more familiar to Jim than the unrestrained, almost loopy smiles.  Machiavelli had written that it was better to be feared than loved, and Jim agreed in most cases.  This was no different.  It was through fear that he touched Sherlock, and was the clear victor.  Sherlock led a public life with a door open for anyone who needed his services - not very secure, was it?  Jim was tucked away, a secret, a fake name on the doorbell, much harder to get to.  They both knew how easy it could be for Jim to harm Sherlock if he really wanted to.  So, why hadn’t it happened yet?  Why hadn’t he made a fatal move, if it would have been so easy?  Sherlock would only ask if he truly wanted to know.  He hadn’t.  Alas.  
  
But the fear had a sour edge to it.  Amongst lively people having a nice night out, it felt a little unfair to mentally corner Sherlock in this regard.  As he understood it, the man barely left 221b, especially not for social reasons.  Jim should feel fortunate, and he did.  Moreso now that the rum buzzed in his veins and slackened his posture, loosened his tongue a little, albeit not in any happy direction.  Jim perused Sherlock carefully.  He really did fear the criminal.  Extraordinary.   
  
“You _are_ brave, I was right,” Jim mused, in something like wonder.  Why should Sherlock sit here and take promises of abuse?  It barely made sense.  And why should Jim dish them out, when he was, deep down, appreciative of the company?  Maybe because Sherlock kept referring to the criminal as a killer, as if that was the only side he wanted to see - why not ram the idea home?  All in the spirit of their sort of fun, but if an offhanded comment made Sherlock’s hand shake…well, it wasn’t exactly guilt that struck Jim, but something close to it.  “You don’t have to be, you know, you could just go home.” The words were the opposite of what Jim wanted, and so lingered like a tangible devil’s advocate between them both.  Reverse psychology?  Perhaps.  But more that the rum had slipped into whichever part of his brain had been previously so careful to watch his words.   
  
-  
  
An invitation to leave his present company? Right when things were beginning to become delightfully non-ordinary? The thought made Sherlock instantly deny any hope of entertaining it, brushing it out of his mind with a wave of his hand. He hadn’t thought that perhaps Jim was the one who wanted to leave. Highly unlikely, however, as he had been the one to initiate this evening and though a few of his comments could have struck the criminal as odd, Sherlock had been on his best behaviour. Or he was trying to be, even through the tiny haze that was beginning to creep up. He hadn’t inquired about any of Jim’s business ventures, or made threats, or even insulted the man, which was a huge deal for him considering he was always chided for pointing out other people’s shortcomings. Perhaps it was because he enjoyed the company and didn’t particularly want to drive him away, which was strange, considering their history. Jim’s comment on his braveness was a throwback to their texting conversation, where Sherlock still remembered what he had said. He hadn’t been neither nervous nor frightened at the time. Now, of course, was a different story.  
  
Considering the thoughtful, yet ultimately unnecessary proposal, he swirled the last remainders of his drink around the glass, purposefully drawing out his decision, punctuated with a convincing “Hm…” and slumping down slightly in his seat. Drawing out the obvious even more, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, having heard it go off more than enough in the past hour. All from John, of course, featuring increasingly frantic demands of his whereabouts. He turned it off again and stuffed it back in his coat. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.” He slowly and luxuriously finished the drink before smiling, looking at Jim. “Unless you, of course, would like to go.” The odds of that happening were slim to none, but Sherlock thought that he would offer, out of kindness for the other party.  
  
-  
  
He’d been half-concerned Sherlock would huff and leave, but it was a silly thought.  Curiosity would always win out.  Like himself, Sherlock could withstand much if it was a means to an end.  Ah, but what end?  Jim had asked the other night, and Sherlock had made it seem it was entirely in his hands.  A slightly sobering thought, because it only worked in theory.  Jim was watching him carefully, and felt oddly complimented by how quickly the phone disappeared.  Sherlock, for whatever reason, really did want to be here.  And was, if the rate at which he drank it an indication, enjoying the coconut more than he had the first drink.  It was with growing amusement that he wondered at Sherlock’s alcohol tolerance, and smirked, shaking his head.   
  
“Oh, no, I simply can’t,” he declared, his accent its natural Irish, and nodded towards the glass Sherlock held.  “You keep pounding drinks like that, you’re going to need someone to help you up the stairs.”  He avoided using the word ‘babysitter’ for it was too close to what John became sometimes, only to have Sherlock mock.  This was outright teasing, for Sherlock hadn’t given any glaring indications of inebration, but it hinted that Jim might have cared some.  Whatever that said, was subject to Sherlock’s interpretation and deductive powers.  Jim certainly hadn’t wanted him to fail at his noose experiment the other night.  Sherlock was his to hurt, but if injury befell him via any other means, well, that was an upsetting thought!  Jim was swirling his own glass again, and his vision had drifted thoughtlessly to Sherlock’s plush lips in an absentminded, alcohol-dulled way, enjoying watching as they formed words.   
  
-  
  
Was Sherlock really drinking that much? It hadn’t occurred to him, as he’d just been indulging whenever he remembered the drink was in his hands. “‘s only been two,” he defended half-heartedly. He usually thought of people getting shitfaced to the point where they couldn’t stand after five or six drinks. He also, perhaps generously, thought of himself as being able to hold his alcohol much better than the average person. It wasn’t often that he did this, if ever. Then again, he never had as delightful company as he had that night. “And I’ve been drinking them slowly.” In truth, he wasn’t aware of the amount needed in order to be inebriated, just that it varied from person to person. He made a mental note to watch it, though. Just in case John was a prat and decided to wait up for him, the last thing he needed was a million questions regarding why he was not able to make it up the stairs.  
  
And so, another one bit the dust. He placed the empty glass to his side, as before, turning round to face Jim, his head lolling ever so slighty to the side.”Oh? Are you volunteering?” he asked, meaning it to come out as sarcastic but evidently not doing a very good job, as he tilted his head and blinked whilst doing so. Handling stairs didn’t seem too daunting a task. There was a railing, after all, and it was no different than putting one foot in front of the other, except at an angle. Even if he did decide to throw all care to the wind, he was certain he could handle a few inclined steps up to his flat. Depending on how late he was out, however, was a different story regarding not waking his flat mate.  
  
-  
  
It _had_ only been teasing.  Two wasn’t much at all, he just didn’t take Sherlock for much of a drinker.  Jim didn’t indulge egregiously often himself, but his genes were of benefit when he did.  All the same, he felt warmed by the liquor, or was it just from being near Sherlock?  A healthy combination of both, the criminal assessed, and it took a moment for his brain to catch up to the question, brown eyes suspicious and warm all at once as they met sparkling blue, noted the shadows his lashes made when they moved.  
  
A simple enough question, but the _way_ Sherlock was looking at him made him wonder.  Jim’s tongue darted unconsciously across his lower lip in thought.  He wanted to tease back with a ‘maybe’, but something else altogether was suddenly burning at the forefront of his mind, a question that lay at the very essence of his conflicts, and could serve to clear some things up.  It revealed nothing, to just ask, and Sherlock had accused him often enough of being vague that to do the same would make the detective a hypocrite.  “Why did you agree to come out tonight?” Jim asked softly, searching Sherlock’s face, curiosity alone making him lean forward a little in his chair.   
  
-  
  
A ‘yes’ was the last thing Sherlock would expect from Jim, so he wasn’t exactly looking for that. He realised after that it was a loaded question, not that he had meant for it to be, just a bit of teasing fun. Jim could have said no and Sherlock would have laughed it off and they would have gone back to what they were doing before. Hell, if he had said yes, it would have made things a bit awkward, but Sherlock still would have brushed it off since he didn’t need a caretaker anyway. But, of course, Jim had to make things more complicated, perhaps without even realising it. Or, maybe he did, and just wanted to shake things up a bit.  
  
He idly watched Jim’s behaviour as he asked the question, noting his tongue, the drop in volume of his voice, leaning closer. All of this, coupled with the question regarding his intentions, made him swallow. Oh yes, of course, he’d just finished his drink. “Well…” he began, eyes darting down to rest on his lap, fingers fidgeting slightly. He debated saying it, lest it be taken as strange or enough for Jim to want to get up and leave. Well, he _had_ asked. “Just wanted to get to know you better,” the detective finally murmured, turning away as he said it. If Jim did react to his answer in a negative way, Sherlock did not want to see it. It was strange, considering he normally couldn’t care less about what other people said or did, but he felt a sense of a fear of rejection at the moment, which he realised he did not seem to care for. Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Why did you?” looking back over his shoulder at the criminal.


	6. I hold on so nervously to me and my drink, I wish it was cooling me...

He watched Sherlock closely - nervous?  Well, if Sherlock was nervous, Jim had to maintain the opposite, though the way the question hung in the air made him think, maybe, he’d get a better answer than ‘curious’.  And he did, though it took effort to listen for it.  The issue was not knowing _why_ Sherlock wanted to, but all the same, the answer made Jim unusually aware of his own pulse.  In fact, it may have skipped a beat.  He wished he could’ve seen the other’s eyes, for any hint of deception.  But the sad truth was, he wanted to believe it.  Could Sherlock, in getting to know him, bring him down? Not if Jim was careful, and he always was.  The consulting detective didn’t /want/ anything out of his doom-and-gloom counterpart, not the way Jim /wanted/.  But the answer touched the criminal all the same, and he mulled it over silently.  People had left him, people hadn’t cared, people had all-out fled.  But Sherlock was sitting right here, knowing fully who he was and what he was capable of.  Brave.   
  
Sherlock did fear him.  Maybe enough to keep him from lying to Jim, if it could mean being shifted to the top of his To Die list.  The criminal had only to conclude that Sherlock meant it, no matrer the why.  Hell.  Whether it was the liquid courage or just Sherlock’s ethereal beauty that made Jim want to burn caution and throw the ashes to the wind, he wasn’t sure, but it was never just one thing.  Didn’t have to be, he’d said so himself.  Conflict and changeability were shields in and of themselves, for it meant being able to work with whatever was thrown his way, and deny the meaning of anything that went wrong, nobody the wiser as to what he meant and didn’t.  This was one of those strange times when no single answer fit, yet he mustered one anyway, his gaze unwittingly intense.  “Because you’re right,” Jim confirmed simply, and lifted his glass again.  “It does get lonely at the top.”  His gaze darted away, not wanting to lose himself too easily in Sherlock’s crystalline eyes, Jim’s own closing as he downed more of his rum and coke.  He clung hard to the idea that it made the motion rendered his answer more casual than it had come off, when in fact, he just had to get away from Sherlock’s eyes before he said, or did, something careless.   
  
-  
  
If Sherlock had possessed a camera at that moment - a nice camera, not his less than par phone camera - he would have taken a picture of Jim and said it was the most human that Sherlock had ever seen him. He would then promptly destroy it, as it would most likely drive him mad if he had to look at those intense, soulless onyx eyes every day. Now was fine, more than fine, actually. Completely okay to just look…Sherlock averted his gaze back to the bar, down in his lap, anywhere away from Jim’s face. Closer down on the list of priorities was Sherlock knowing that he was correct, as Jim had affirmed. Normally, that would be the only accomplishment he had cared about, not taking any interest in what was actually said. But now, rather than being apathetic towards Jim’s confession, sympathy, no, empathy showed in Sherlock’s eyes and for good reason. He had to stop himself from reaching out and patting the man’s hand and telling him he wasn’t alone. It was a bit sad to realise that despite Jim having the ability to control and have anything he wanted, he instead had to resort to coming out for drinks with an enemy.  
  
Unless there was another reason. Jim could have demanded one of his employees go and drink with him, even that sniper of his. They were surely more capable of holding their drinks and providing Jim with conversation suited to his interests. But why Sherlock? “But why me?” he countered, looking at Jim, who was currently looking the other way. Sherlock was of course entirely grateful for the opportunity, and would obviously come next time. Or, if there would ever be a next time. He realised that every time, he had jumped at Jim’s call, and without any second thought. It was a frightening thing to think about, Jim calling on Sherlock and the detective immediately giving no second thoughts of it. Of course, he had to feign disinterest, utter contempt. That was simply the game and Sherlock couldn’t very well break the rules. Though, this did seem a rather large deviation from it, and if Sherlock would have as good a time as he was now, perhaps he would have to break the rules more often in the future.   
  
-  
  
God, what a question.  Had Sherlock never, ever listened?  No, he heard what he wanted to: the victims, the bombs, Jim’s genius beckoning from the shadows, Sherlock’s genius reeled in.  But he might have ‘deleted’ the other parts.  The criminal certainly hadn’t hidden his interest: ‘we were made for each other’ were strong words coming from someone so used to loneliness, ones he might never be able to repeat in his own voice.  The question was, why anyone /but/ Sherlock?  Molly had been so…sweet, and welcoming; Irene had a lust for life and good fashion; Sebastian was loyal and not half as stupid as he looked.  But Sherlock…he was just…something else entirely.  Jim’s breed of strange, and it would have been something to regret, if their tarnished souls occupied the planet at the same time and had never collided.   
  
There was a palpable heaviness in the air between them, one that might benefit from a jest, some bit of cleverness.  He shouldn’t have had this much rum, really, as it slowed his mind and made wit come less naturally.  He felt it was expected of him, having set quite a precedent, but here they’d gone down a more honest path.  To what end, neither knew, which made it discreetly terrifying.  Jim faced the bar as he set the glass on it, and swallowed.  All part of the game, right?  Just words.  Just declarations he’d never ever have to stand behind, because Sherlock would delete them anyway.  His right knee was bouncing again lightly underneath the bar, and he tilted his head back towards Sherlock - Christ, it was like those eyes were staring right through him - and smiled in a faint way that could mean just about anything.  “Because some genius told me you never know until you try.”  
  
Anyone else, and that’d have been a good moment to do just that - to close the distance between them, make an attempt.  Perhaps in an alternate reality, it did happen that way.  It wasn’t that Jim didn’t find Sherlock’s lips utterly kissable, oh, he did.  But Sherlock didn’t want a goddamn thing from him, and he knew it.  What looked like a respectful distance wasn’t just respectful, but resigned.  It wouldn’t surprise the criminal if the idea passed across his features in some way, but his eyerows rose, wondering what Sherlock made of his own motivational speaking, now.  
  
-  
  
Oh, how entirely touching. Had Jim not been a consulting criminal, he could quite possibly have been a romance novelist. He certainly had the flair for it, anyway. And Sherlock would read all of them and fall in love. Because Jim had a certain way with words. He didn’t have a very loud voice, but it was extremely unique, and though he spoke cryptically at times, Sherlock was perfectly content simply listening. The way he saw past the simplicity and ordinary of humankind and twisted it to fit his will was enticing. It made Sherlock want to be around him all the time, just so he wouldn’t miss a minute of the man. And had his eyes always sparkled like that? They certainly seemed to shine, even under the low light. Sherlock hardly ever saw that much of an intense expression than when he was working.  
  
  
“And how is that working out for you?” he inquired,  retrieving the glass and fidgeting with it with his fingers. “Well, I hope.” He trailed off, lowering his glass to his lap following it with his eyes. It was barely above a murmur, and Sherlock looked up from underneath his lowered eyelids and smirked. It was a first for anyone to actually take his advice, or even be willing to listen to it. Nobody seemed to listen to anything except when they needed answers from him. That Jim had taken it and actually done something about it was completely surprising. Though, Sherlock did have to wonder what exactly Jim did want to try. He had said it was lonely at the top, and Sherlock then asked why Jim chose him. Then the criminal said he’d never knew unless he tried. What exactly did it mean? He looked into Jim’s eyes for an answer, hoping that maybe if he could see, he would understand. He tilted his head slightly closer, trying to see for himself.  
  
-  
  
When the detective’s head tilted down, the fingers of Jim’s left hand curled in on themselves, to hold back from replacing an adorably errant curl.  What a presumptuous thought!  It still seemed to Jim that his pulse was more erratic than usual, and it was all Sherlock’s fault.  He was beyond adrenaline in most perilous of circumstances, loving it but knowing all the same that his mind could propel him forth in all his plans by ignoring the chemical impulses.  So why should Sherlock fucking Holmes have that effect?  Or care how it was working out?   
  
Just what in the hell were they really doing here?  
  
Jim’s tongue darted out again, and his gaze bounced from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth and back again.  Temptation reigned supreme, and yet.  Jim’s deep-set eyes didn’t narrow, but they twitched visibly.  Sherlock was playing him, or trying to.  “I’d say well,” he affirmed quietly, and with an almost eerie slowness and an unconsciously held breath, Jim’s neck craned, a snakelike little motion, that put his cheek oh-so-near the other’s.  To anyone else in the bar, it looked like someone leaning in to tell a secret, or simply be heard over the music.  But to Jim it was a skipping heartbeat, a neck he wanted to either bite into or break, a few strands of Sherlock’s hair tickling his temple.  It was intoxicating, and he didn’t dare let himself breathe Sherlock in.  Jim spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact monotone, breath warm near Sherlock’s ear.  “If you didn’t have such a fucking smirk on your face.”  
  
-  
  
This certainly was not in the rules of the game. This was a completely different game with no rules, evidently, and Sherlock wasn’t too sure of how to play it. He watched Jim, mind jumping to try and make some deductions, if only to see if he still possessed the ability, for some familiarity. Nothing came to mind and he exhaled slowly, attempting to organise his racing thoughts. One minute, Jim was at a comfortable distance, and they were making idle conversation. Alright, maybe not idle, but they both had their personal space. The next thing Sherlock knew, he was leaning forward, and Sherlock closed his eyes slowly, not sure of what to expect. Once he felt something brush his side, he opened them again, realising Jim’s mouth was dangerously close to his ear. His eyes darted to his side, his first thought being what Jim was exactly doing, and not whether or not he should pull away.  
  
He perked up, eyes widening a bit at Jim’s words. So it seemed Sherlock’s little displays were having at least a slight effect on him. Well, Jim knew full well that he was at least a part of it. Sherlock wouldn’t have come out for drinks and began smiling at nothing. Jim’s insights, and cryptic comments, and even the threats were music to the detective’s ears. Without missing a beat, he turned to face the criminal, mouth forming into a smile as he whispered breathlessly into Jim’s ear. “And whose fault would that be?”  
  
-  
  
How ever did they keep surprising each other?  Jim had expected a mere moment of savoring the intimidating closeness before Sherlock pulled away, but this did not go as anticipated.  And whatever cologne Sherlock wore all but assaulted his senses when he took a necessary breath, and the criminal felt like he was sinking.  This was just what he’d wanted, and wanted to avoid.  For fuck’s sake.  He should have been sober, and aware of everything and everyone in the bar, but his world had shrunk down to just Sherlock, and time seemed to stop entirely.  If Jim didn’t keep his head in the game, he was doomed, but wasn’t he already?  
  
Never in his life had he felt so utterly undone by a whisper.  Jim’s dominant hand tightened, eyes squeezing shut in something like a wince as a shiver ran from his ear right down his spine, a flare of heat the force of which shocked him.  Philosophical, rhetorical yearning taking a turn for the sensory.  And Sherlock was doing it on purpose.    Jim was so grateful the other couldn’t see his face right now, for his lips had parted speechlessly, eyes glazed when they opened again.  Such sweet torment.  And was it his fault that Sherlock was a sarcastic, smirky little shit?  Hardly.  The only fault lay in encouraging it by falling for it.  If the criminal’s suddenly unsteady breath was any indication, that was exactly what was happening.   
  
It began to occur to him that he might actually be drunk. Lunch had been light due to schedule, and there’d been no time for dinner that might have kept the rum’s effects at bay.  But again he wasn’t certain whether it was the sauce, or just this.  This surprising moment where it seemed as if Jim allowed Sherlock to get to him - he didn’t feel he had enough say in the matter to call it allowance.  No, this was a goddamned onslaught.  And Jim hated how much he loved it.  
  
“Are you flattering me, Sherlock?” Jim murmured once he’d found his voice, unusually husky, and he knew all it would take to break the spell was moving further away.  For one moment, though, he didn’t want to see if Sherlock was smirking.  He just wanted…this.  Whatever it was, for as long as he could have it, before his favourite distraction inevitably broke away.  Jim was counting on Sherlock to do so soon.  Why shouldn’t he?   
  
-  
  
If anything, Sherlock liked to believe that he was adaptable to any situation that he needed to be. He wasn’t used to going out for any particular reason, other than when his services were needed or a bite to eat with John. He certainly never went out just to get a drink, yet here he was, sitting practically face-to-face with a criminal mastermind. Was this normally what happened when people went out for drinks together? He would have to make a point of remembering that. Nonetheless, it felt…normal. Sherlock didn’t have any impulse or anything telling him that he should pull back; in fact, he wanted to lean in a bit closer. Just in case Jim still couldn’t hear him. Purely out of caring for Jim, that was all. The fact that he was leaning in so close that his cheek was practically touching had nothing to do with it, of course.  
  
Sherlock should have said no. It would have avoided a whole mess of chaos, would have been the easiest option. He knew that was what expected of him, but as Jim had reminded him before, people expected the worst of him and he loved to prove them wrong.  He knew deep down what he wanted to say. He wanted to keep the man here, in such close proximity, and just connect with him. With his human side. Jim had brought the human in him out so quickly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to being enemies after this, after smelling the rum on Jim’s breath, and feeling his warm breath on his ear, and hearing the sudden huskiness of Jim’s lilt. Sherlock knew the rules, though. And he was going to break them. “You tell me,” he shot back, softly, actively aware of his shallow breathing. He leaned in so he was right in Jim’s ear, matching his huskiness, almost as if he was growling. “Darling.”


	7. I Am Imagining A Dark-Lit Place

God help Jim Moriarty, conflicted consulting criminal.  
  
He could feel warmth radiating from Sherlock, or was it just his own temperature spiking?  What might it cost him in the end, to enjoy this now?  All too much, said his brain, which struggled for control over the rest of him.  There was a brush of breath so caressing that it may actually have been Sherlock’s lips, he couldn’t tell exactly, focus dissipating along with his resolve and paranoia.  Winning and losing, all at once.   
  
The pet name was no more than Jim had dished out time and time again, but it was the first time he’d heard it back, and the effect of it was disturbingly profound.  Sherlock’s voice was the thunder and again spurred lightning down Jim’s back, a short sharp inhale of breath.  This was heaven mixed with hell and definitely, certainly, without a smidgen of a doubt, only half his fault.   
  
It was so natural, human and animal at once, to want the warmth, Jim’s head tilting towards it, the barest trace of five o’clock shadow meeting cheekbones like well-carved porcelain, a statue, something you looked at but didn’t touch.  Jim couldn’t forget himself entirely; nothing was ever wholly out of his reach.  The bravado with which he carried out his daily life wasn’t without reason.  And this was a sudden and stunning closeness to the precious candle he’d promised to snuff out.  To make burn.  
  
Sherlock had a funny way of getting revenge, of paralyzing his enemy.  Jim appreciated it.  Why do with effort what could be done with a whisper?  The nights he’d dreamt of the detective had transformed his mornings, either giving him a renewed sense of patience or a real urge to get creative in his ventures.  Jim had wanted to give Sherlock every chance to notice him, and chase him down.  If Sherlock slipped cuffs on his wrists right now with a ‘gotcha’, would it be worth it?  
  
Yes.  
  
“I think…” Jim murmured, his tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips and, oops, brushing Sherlock’s lobe in the process, “that you should be texting John.” How he managed sing-song just now was a bloody feckin’ wonder.  Maybe because he only took John so seriously.  “Telling him you’ll be home…soon,” Jim continued, tone back to a distracted drawl, and took another deep inhale of Sherlock, his leg almost brushing the other’s now.  To Jim, they were the only people in the bar right now, in the world.  His eyes had closed, and it took every effort to keep his hands off Sherlock. “Instead of starting something you don’t want to finish.”  He’d intended warning, but somehow it had turned out sounding like a challenge.  
  
-  
  
It took nothing short of a miracle to confuse Sherlock Holmes, and even more to render him completely speechless, yet Jim had done both in a matter of a few short seconds. The first sensation he experienced, however, was a shudder and a very sudden urge to have a cigarette. The first contact with Jim’s light stubble, which was most likely on accident, sent a shiver down his spine. It shouldn’t have, as it was an innocent enough gesture, though in that context, Sherlock did wonder. The second contact, which was most definitely _not_ an accident, made him exhale shakily and clench his fingers. If Jim was attempting to make Sherlock look like a nervous fool, he was succeeding, and Sherlock was grateful that the man wasn’t able to see his face.  
  
And why shouldn’t he react towards it? It was the most contact that he had had in a while, and Jim was so warm and inviting and what’s more is that he initiated it. He started this, and Sherlock reacted. Rather strongly. In a way that he thought he wouldn’t, but couldn’t help.  
  
But Jim’s response made him narrow his eyes in thought and tilt his head in confusion. Was that a challenge being offered? Sherlock had sure taken it as one. He was certain Jim hadn’t meant it to be anything more than a statement, but Sherlock quickly tore it apart and dismissed the idea. One, Sherlock never reported to anyone, least of all John. Two, John was not his mother nor his boyfriend and therefore, Sherlock did not need to text him where he was nor when he would be coming home. And three, Sherlock was perfectly capable of deciding for himself what he wanted to do. If Jim thought that there was any chance in hell that the detective would willingly stand up and walk out, he had another think coming. He was completely aware of the close proximity of Jim’s leg and promptly closed the distance without hesitation, ‘accidentally’ bumping his own with the criminal’s. “Wasn’t it you who said I enjoy proving people wrong?” he lilted, a smile returning to his face. Dear old Jim, forgetting his own advice.  
  
-  
  
There was crazy, and then there was _crazy_ , the latter of which Jim was being driven by Sherlock’s breaths against his ear.  Mother of god, this was a billion bad ideas rolled into one and being handed to him on a silver platter!  Jim’s mind had dimmed, and he was sure the bar lights had, too.  Everything seemed softer around the edges while in comparison, his nerves felt as taut as Sherlock’s violin bow, his senses as masterfully played as the instrument itself.  Jim’s leg twitched at the contact, pressed into it, his self-control becoming less of a certainty with every passing moment.  Still to any observers, it was a whispered conversation, no doubt amongst lovers.  
  
Oh, what a farce.  What a gorgeous, delicious, impressive show they managed to put on for each other.  He had to be getting to Sherlock.  This couldn’t all be for show.  This felt unbearably real, Jim’s lashes fluttering, heat twisting through his midsection and lower yet.  A good thing he was sitting down, for he felt his knees might not support him just now, though he was leaning more into Sherlock than he realized.  Jim’s heart was pounding in his chest, and he couldn’t resist anymore, the lure of Sherlock’s swanlike neck, and he was just about to trace his tongue along it when Sherlock dipped just out of reach.  
  
Good.  Good!  Jim needed a moment, just one second without everything he wanted barraging his senses.  He hadn’t expected this.  They were still in public. Sherlock could be screwing with his head entirely.  Two could easily play that game, and save themselves so much trouble.  After all, they were two halves of a whole; everything each other had to say, maybe even to think!, had already crossed their minds.  
  
Jim couldn’t hide how glazed his eyes had become, both with drink and half-lidded lust, and staring at Sherlock’s smile he had thoughts of biting the lower lip, maybe even enough to coax pretty sounds out of the detective.  It didn’t seem an impossibility now, as much as it had, but Jim was still too willing to let Sherlock assume the worst.  The bourgeouis, intelligent smugness was his last bastion of defense against Sherlock’s sensuous, successful attempts to arouse him.  “Mhmm,” Jim hummed, so deep it was almost a moan, “Making reverse psychology…rather effective, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
-  
  
Oh, if Sherlock had a video camera so he could capture the essence of Jim in his current state. This was definitely going to go under the category of ‘images to never forget’. The thought that _Sherlock_ himself was the one who was causing it was even more delightful, considering he had never done this sort of thing before, except with Irene maybe. Who had been a bit more aggressive in her pursuits. Jim seemed content to progress slowly, and wait for Sherlock to react rather than demanding control, which was odd, considering he was the exact opposite in his line of work. Of course, Sherlock egging him on may have helped, but he would leave that little detail conveniently out.  
  
He could feel Jim lean in, and Sherlock had to tilt his head, having an overwhelming urge to see the man’s face. His eyes widened ever so slightly as he took in the glazed look, as if he were staring at nothing, and the downright look of _want_ in his features. It startled Sherlock a bit, but more than that, he felt as though he…liked it? Wanted to see more of it? He exhaled slowly, finally breaking the hold of looking into Jim’s eyes. Nothing ever held his attention for this long, least of all anything having to do with the human face.  
  
Sherlock had to let out a chuckle. Reverse psychology? Is that why he felt such a strong need to prove everyone wrong? He simply thought it was a need ingrained into everyone. He was still painfully aware that they were actually touching, and Sherlock made no move to change that situation. Evidently, Jim hadn’t either. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” he mused. Sherlock idly wondered what Jim would have done had he taken the suggestion and gone home, considering his current state. Sherlock wouldn’t have dreamed of it, of course.  
  
-  
  
Here he’d hoped to annoy Sherlock, once the detective realized he may have been mentally one-upped, but it was reasonable to think that Sherlock’s brain wasn’t at full capacity, either.  A delicious thought, but didn’t make Jim feel any less vulnerable to those gorgeous, jewelesque eyes.  The warmth of the knee against his own was subtly distracting, and it occurred to Jim that it might be a good time to get out of here.  And go where?  God.  How could he even walk right now?   
  
“Yes, you are,” Jim murmured, swallowing hard as he tried to recapture his breath, staring at Sherlock with obvious longing.  It was taking everything in Jim not to grab and tear at him like a wild animal.  Did Sherlock realize?  How far into Jim’s deep, dark eyes did he really see?  
  
“We’ve been here too long,” the criminal decided.  Even as he said it, his left hand finally unfurled, and touching Sherlock’s knee, his fingers spidered out over it.  Jim was getting braver, too, in teasing, and watched Sherlock’s face carefully.  Though it was a risk, staying in one place so long.  Finding a dark table for the sake of discreet groping held some appeal, but it was still a little tawdry.  Cheap.  Not that he should even think about-  
  
“We could take a walk,” he ventured softly, “Get some air?”  Sherlock might like the Jack the Ripper factoid, but crime aficionado that he was, likely already knew it.  These chairs weren’t working, for this, and they both could use the air.  Jim felt utterly overwhelmed, and only let his fingers dance over Sherlock’s knee a short time before withdrawing them.  He shouldn’t he touching Sherlock right now, if he wanted his trousers to feel less tight, but knowing he _could_ was almost irresistible.  How absurdly ordinary, that they’d meet at a bar just to wind each other up.  
  
-  
  
Leave it to Jim to take control. Of course, Sherlock would go along with it. At the moment, he was certain he would have followed the man to the ends of the Earth. He stared back into Jim’s eyes, tilting his head as he attempted to read what the criminal was thinking at the moment. He wasn’t sure it was working, but it was helping him from his attention drifting to other aspects of Jim at the moment. He inhaled a shaky breath, subtly, not wanting Jim to notice.  
  
The man’s observation was true, and Sherlock was about to agree when a hand rested on his knee. His eyes darted down to watch it, his mouth hanging open slightly. He could actively feel his breathing become more shallow and his stomach lurched into his throat. “Yes…” he began, finding that his throat was suddenly very dry. He was just about to cover that hand with his own, was only millimetres from it when Jim moved his hand away. That should _not_ have affected him the way it did, nor should he have wanted the hand to return. But he did, more than anything.  
  
“We have,” he finally agreed, looking back up at the criminal with wide eyes. “Yes, air would be nice.” He definitely needed to get out of that atmosphere and clear his thoughts. The overwhelming smell of alcohol and Jim were clouding his mind and it would be nice to get a bit of his own sanity back. That and they would be alone, but Sherlock pushed that out of his mind. Remembering something important, he took his phone back out of his coat, though finding it proved a bit of a challenge and getting his eyes to focus was the next one.  
  
Im fine. Dont wait up. SH  
  
Hopefully that would quell the doctor, at least for a little while. He returned the phone and turned his attention back on Jim. Yes, a nice walk to ease his mind would be quite useful. He stood from his seat and extended his hand to the criminal, smiling. “Coming?”  
  
-  
  
Jim was nodding quickly, glad Sherlock agreed, to say nothing of the way the cupid’s bow had slackened at Jim’s touch, the way Sherlock’s breathing had changed.  Right, okay, leaving - move!  It was a real challenge to tear his gaze away.  Jim wanted hours on end of looking at him, learning every angle of his face, every magnificent sliver of emerald and cerulean that sparkled in his eyes…   
  
One thing at a time, the usually very efficient criminal had to remind himself, and focused on simple things: extracting wallet from coat pocket, and breathing properly.  Was his hand shaking?  Oh, that was telling.  He counted quickly and pulled out double what the drinks cost and set it on the bar, generous because he could afford to be, and he already knew he’d return here some night, because it was theirs now.  Secret sentiment might bring him back, no matter what else happened, but he’d never admit to such, and was just as likely to blow the place up in future if the mood struck.   
  
That made him smile, and in less than ten seconds whilst sliding his arms into his coatsleeves, his mind had wrapped around and decided upon just how he’d do it, if he wanted to.  A thought that distracted from Sherlock until the rich baritone, armed with entendre, invaded his senses again.  “One second, darling…” Jim mumbled, hands passing over each pocket in turn as he half-rose from the seat, making certain all familiar necessities were in their familiar places.  Jim had been easily distracted, and anyone walking by could have dipped a hand into a forgotten coat pocket.  But score another point for his trust of Sherlock, and of the way the night was heading: keys, phone, wallet and rarely-used jackknife were all where they should be.  Even worrying a little about it reminded him again to be cautious, but Jim was fast losing his will to doubt Sherlock.   
  
Some side of his personality didn’t want to have to, and it showed in his eyes when he glanced at the proffered hand.  Jim accepted it only long enough to rise fully from the seat and move off from the bar, an easy smile on his face.  His fingertips brushed Sherlock’s wrist for a moment before his hand dropped away, and what was it, about that little touch, that Jim found so inspiring?  Sherlock played his games willingly; came out for a drink with him willingly.  But could he do both at once?  Dark eyes glittering, Jim stood on his toes and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s porcelain cheek, and too in love with the idea to care if it created a scene, Jim murmured, “Catch me if ya can.” Before Sherlock could realize it, Jim, always one for a grand exit, was a burst of energy gone towards the doorway, and up the thankfully unpopulated stairs.  He made a sharp right turn once out the door, making quickly for the alley, mentally counting the seconds until Sherlock caught up.  Yes.  A good, brisk walk was just what they needed.  
  
-  
  
Jim certainly knew how to treat his company well. Sherlock idly wondered if he did this often, not with him, of course, but dates. Did he even go on any dates? Jim wasn’t exactly the go out and buy flowers for a girl type, at least, he didn’t strike Sherlock to be that type. Putting explosives in the flowers was a different story all together, of course. Perhaps in his younger days, the criminal was a real charmer. Hell, he had quite the skills even now, if Sherlock’s dilated pupils had anything to say about it. If the detective had put away a few more drinks, the criminal may have needed a bat just to keep him at bay.  
  
He watched with piqued interest as Jim felt through his pockets, finding the situation fairly humorous. No one had approached the pair the entire time, and even if they had, they would have had a hard time escaping the keen eye of both the detective and the criminal. Yet Jim was still paranoid, as he should be. He did have an empire to run and couldn’t afford to lose it, especially for a silly reason, such as going out with an enemy to have drinks together. His competition would have had a field day if they had found out about this.  
  
Sherlock smiled at his accepted gesture, glad that Jim had not simply blown him off, and made a mental note of how Jim’s hand felt in his own. He felt a slight shiver as the man’s fingertips brushed over his exposed wrist as he let go, shocked at how even the smallest, most innocent touch could draw such a reaction from him. He watched with curiosity as Jim stood on his toes, and suddenly he was very aware of the height difference between the two, only just registering the light kiss pressed to his cheek. Had there been time to mull it over, amidst the awkward silence, a blush would have crept up to warm his face but yet again, Jim threw in a curve ball and was a blur out the door before Sherlock could even say okay. He stood there for a second before it registered to him to give chase, and chase the criminal he did, following the same pathway whilst darting amongst the other patrons, a smile coming across his face. When Jim had offered to take a walk, this was certainly not what he had in mind.  
  
-  
  
It was invigorating to be moving again, after so long rooted to one spot.  It was head-clearing, and he sold himself to the impulse, adrenaline enough to put arousal on the backburner.  Invigorating, too, to make Sherlock chase him, after so long pinned like a dead butterfly under the detective’s scientific curiosity.  A mad little laugh left Jim’s lips, inebriation mixed with the thrill of the more familiar game, until it hit him that he’d remembered this street wrong - no alley, shit!  His eyes darted around wildly, turned back just in time to see the door of the bar flung wide open and Sherlock burst out of it, and Jim laughed again.  Yes, darling, you want me, you’re going to have to catch me.   
  
Jim was lucky he didn’t stumble as he took off once again, grateful he kept well enough in shape that this was no real strain.  A little disorienting but no worse than that, eyes on the buildings as he passed them, looking for a place…  
  
What must they have looked like to passersby?  A couple of drunks, forgetting public convention like schoolboys at play?  A civic-minded pursuit, a la cop and criminal; or something wilder, driven by instinct, with the only possible ending a capture with claws and fangs?  To Jim it was all of these things at once.  He’d play the running prey, the sheep to Sherlock’s wolf.  And if the pounding of shoes not far behind was any indication, that wolf had a damn long running stride.  It suited Jim to recognize that he was being gained upon, gave him just the incentive he needed to keep running.   
  
At the corner he considered feinting left but the red light made that a bad idea, so he turned with the pavement, narrowly avoiding knocking into a happy-looking couple who stared as he rushed by.  He didn’t look back to see how near Sherlock was.  Between a restaurant and a closed bookstore was a particularly shoddy-looking wooden gate, and not caring where it led, Jim’s momentum aided him in throwing weight against it.  If it had been locked, it was pretty ineffective against the force of his will, the sharp sound of wood cracking as it opened into a long gangway.  Bruised shoulder tomorrow seemed a distant and unimportant inevitability; he was more worried about whether his fine coat had suffered any damage.  No time to check it over now, as he sped down the narrow path between buildings, beginning to pant just a little from the exertion while under the influence.  Glancing ahead, Jim saw it: the dead end, a chain-link fence of about ten feet cutting the gangway off from the world beyond.  Fuck, fuck!  Jim didn’t hesitate - terrible shoes for it, but getting a good grip in the links, spurred on by his own pulse and Sherlock’s approach pounding in his ears, he started to make his way up the fence.  
  
-  
  
Had Sherlock known that he would be on a full-scale chase for an inebriated criminal, he might have worn more comfortable, flowing clothing. Normally, he had no problems running all around the streets of London with John, but tonight, he was mainly a mess of long limbs under a flowing coat. Every few steps that were taken, he felt himself slightly stumble, but quickly fell back in line, always keeping Jim in his sights. It wouldn’t look very becoming of him to completely lose track of the man, and he certainly wouldn’t let that happen. Jim loathed the dull and the ones who couldn’t keep up with him; Sherlock would not fall into either of those categories. Just when it seemed as if the criminal was about to slip from his gaze, in a last minute effort, he pulled off his scarf and coat, gripping both tightly in his arms as he continued to chase Jim.  
  
There was nothing stopping him from stopping, turning around and going back home. Jim would be none the wiser and simply assume he had lost Sherlock and won, and that would have been the end of their little adventure that night. The thought did not even occur to him, and he was in it to win it, or at least find out where the hell Jim was leading him. He hoped it wasn’t an alleyway somewhere, as that probably would not fare well for him, but that was a risk he was willing to take. Although, while he may have had a difficult time going head-to-head with a sober Jim, he was fairly certain he could handle a drunken one, especially one that was most likely getting a wear and tear from all the running.  
  
He watched as Jim turned the corner, and Sherlock rounded it a few seconds later, gaining a bit of momentum as he began to rear up on the man. He could practically grab the ends of the criminal’s coat, until he flung himself at a wooden gate and Sherlock nearly ran the man over to see if he was alright. The instantaneous reaction stopped him, and he instead continued to follow, but stopped and watched in wonder as Jim began to go up and over a fence. He gave a quiet groan, amazed at Jim’s commitment but also wondering how far he was willing to take this. Would they run all over the city? Coat still in hand, he lifted himself up on the fence after Jim, scrambling to follow.  
  
-     
  
Jim mightn’t have pushed it this far, if only for his own drunken sake, were it not for knowing how much Sherlock had to be enjoying it.  To sit at the bar and melt into each other…typical, too easy.  They were both too stubborn to admit being typical, and this little chase was wonderfully distracting.  And it only served to prove that Sherlock really would play his consulting counterpart’s games, no matter what form they took.  But Jim had known that for a long time now.  
  
Panting lightly from exertion and adrenaline, Jim pulled himself higher up, link by link, and couldn’t help laughing again.  He had no idea where he was leading them, and streetlamps blocked by the buildings, it was only getting darker.  How far would he make it and consider it a victory, worthy of Sherlock’s time and effort?  Hands almost to the top of the fence, he chanced a look downward.  “Oh, fuck!” Jim exclaimed, laughing still to see the pale face and sharp blue eyes nearer than he’d imagined.  Sherlock had made a grab that almost connected with his ankle, and Jim swung his leg out of the way just in time.  Rum, delight and lunacy had their hands upon him, and all propelled him up and over the other side, not without a huff and some difficulty.  It was without real dismay that he noted Sherlock’s progress, slim fingers finding the chain links easily, such determination!  And Jim had always wanted to be caught.  
  
The criminal had a careful hold on the top bar of the fence, and for the first time he regretted his outfit choice.  The shoes, anyway - trainers would have worked wonders in scrambling for purchase, the descent deserving of more care than the way up had.  It took Jim too long to find a foothold for each shoe, and before he knew it, Sherlock had reached the top.  It startled Jim, for if he moved, he’d fall, and he gripped the bar harder.  Their faces were mere inches apart, bodies quite literally on opposite sides, as Jim so loved to refer to their lines of work.  “Hi,” he breathed, grinning.  This was a slight and potentially graceless predicament, but he did need the moment to catch his breath.  Jim’s eyes had a spark in them - one that was only brought on nowadays by Sherlock.  “Having fun yet?”, he teased, all breathlessness and raised eyebrows.   
  
-  
  
As Sherlock was clinging to the fence, shrouded in the darkness of the night, it idly occurred to him that he was really not in a sane state of mind at the moment. He wasn’t supposed to be chasing Jim in a game of tag, of course first getting inebriated with him, in the middle of the night. He was supposed to be catching him, turning him in to possibly be locked away in a cell forever. And that’s when it hit him - that was the last thing the detective wanted to happen to the criminal. If it did, if Lestrade got to him first, which was next to impossible without Sherlock’s help, he knew for a fact that he would help the man escape. Break him out, just as he had done with Irene. And it scared him a bit, as he knew he wouldn’t have done it with anyone else.  
  
Because he was chasing him up a fence, almost basically disrobed. Because he was actually enjoying it. He faltered a bit, then tightened his grip on the fence as Jim found his footing and went up and over. His breath was coming in short bursts, not because of all of the physical activity as he traipsed around the streets of London with John all the time, but from the excitement and thrill of the chase. It was exhilarating, knowing that Jim was the one who had initiated this. He would never admit it, but Jim had been the one to pursue Sherlock, and Sherlock was glad he did. Not that he would admit that, either. Sherlock preferred to let his actions speak rather than his words, which is why he was currently opposite of the criminal.  
  
He stared into the normally black eyes, though at the moment, they seemed to brighten into a dull grey and Sherlock imagined if he looked hard enough, he could perhaps see a glimmer of a soul. Swallowing hard, his eyes darted to where his hand tightly gripped the fence, only a few inches away from the other man’s before flicking back to Jim’s face. “Hello,” he responded, equally breathless. “Oh, starting to.” He attempted to sound as non-chalant as possible, but given the circumstances, it came out between heaving breaths. “You certainly are.”  
  
-  
  
Fun was an understatement.  Jim felt unusually alive.  His smile only broadened, wolfish and delirious at once.  Hadn’t there been something in the texts, about suspense making Sherlock’s heart race?  Despite his own eternal patience, it struck Jim as funny, that he was separated from his most prized _prize_ by only a chain-link fence, and planned to keep running.  But he couldn’t move, pinned to the spot by its very precariousness, and the sound of Sherlock’s heavy breaths between his own.  Staring back into, searching those vibrant blue eyes…Jim had a sense, not for the first time, that, yes, they were on the same page.  And it was beautiful.   
  
That there was a chill on the night breeze as it swept down the gangway didn’t matter.  Brain and its stem all but floating in booze, limbs and chest heated from the run, he barely felt the sting of the cold but for against his face, which the press of Sherlock’s cheek had recently warmed, and across his fingers, which he knew now might not be brushed off if they sought the other man’s.  But such thoughts!  Romanticism and finality and conquest and hope, all swirling senselessly together, too much to entrust to Sherlock’s hands, and so Jim’s stayed where they were.  He even kept his body at some distance from the fence itself, hands and feet the only contact points - anything more might be perilous to his concentration.  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m also fairly concerned about falling on my arse,” he confessed in a jest, one glance down confirming that it wouldn’t be an easy drop.  A wave of dizziness hit the criminal, catching up to him now that he’d slowed.  Hell.  Stupid drinks.  Apparently he could’ve invited Sherlock out for a jog and it might have worked out as well.  Not that the exertions had really succeeded in distracting him from Sherlock’s general loveliness, especially now when this near.  Jim shook his head in amusement at the absurdity of it.  Pausing to have a chat ten feet up in the air; it suddenly seemed less lonely at the top.  Words of wonder died in Jim’s throat long before they made it to his lips, and he had to close his eyes momentarily, to push the dizziness back, to refocus on the inevitable descent - but when he opened them, his focus was on the perfect angles of Sherlock’s face.  It was astounding to the criminal that he’d managed once to tell Sherlock with such conviction, to back off.  It was the direct opposite of what he wanted, and wasn’t reverse psychology grand?  
  
And where had fled all his suspensful, well-planned, murderous intent?  It’d be so easy to distract Sherlock just now, and pry his fingers off the bar, and throw his weight into giving the fence a good, dislodging shake.  Ah, but Sherlock could do the very same to him, Jim knew.  And it’d just be too easy.  Breath finally returning to something resembling normal, Jim knew he could start on making his way down, and pick up speed again.  Then why wasn’t he doing so?  
  
“Say I keep running,” Jim suggested, licking his lips for the cold had made them dry, eyes peering into Sherlock’s, 50% curious and 50% longing to hear the answer he already knew.  “Would you still follow?”


	8. (Or Your Place or My Place)

Struck by Jim’s scrutinizing gaze, matched only by his own, Sherlock nearly lost both his grip and composure. Which, at that height, did not seem like a very good idea, and he certainly did not want to wake up tomorrow with a concussion or possibly worse, as it would probably be a bit difficult to solve cases. He wondered why they were still hanging from the fence, as it had to at least been a minute since they’d jumped upon it and Jim had made no move to continue the chase. Had he already given up? It wouldn’t be too hard to catch up now that Sherlock was ready, if a bit out of breath, and he wouldn’t have to weave through a sea of people on the somewhat empty streets of the night.  
  
The narrow space grew chilly, and Sherlock shivered, but he felt hot underneath his clothing, like his skin was nearly on fire. The two sensations were enough to make him shudder a bit. A laugh escaped his lips at Jim’s comment, though the threat of danger was obviously there. The chains under his hand were beginning to dig in painfully and he considered hauling himself over the other side but remained put, feeling a bit too under the charms of Jim’s unpredictability. Anything could happen at that moment; they could both fall, possibly lose consciousness and wake up in the morning with no memory of the night. Someone could find them and they would have to make a quick escape, which would be no problem for either of them. Or they could just take in each other for the rest of the night, which was most appealing to the detective.  
  
He considered Jim’s question, idly noticing the tongue darting out to wet his lips. It seemed a bit symbolic, given the circumstances. What exactly would be happening after the night was over? Would Jim continue to cause chaos the day after, and was Sherlock expected to chase him still? Of course, he knew he would, but after tonight’s experience, perhaps he would do it more for the thrill of the chase than for the intent of catching the criminal. He sneaked a look at the ground underneath him before looking back at Jim, focusing on his eyes through one of the holes in the fence. “As long as you kept going,” he finally settled on, smiling ever so slightly. Because Sherlock knew that he would follow Jim to the ends of the earth if it meant Jim would keep an interest in him.  
  
-  
  
Yes, that was just the answer Jim had been hoping for.  He was smiling again, nodding almost imperceptibly.  All of a sudden, out of the most overwhelming sense of appreciation, he wanted to kiss Sherlock, so much! - the thought consumed him, gaze darting down to that little smile through the links.  To Jim’s sense of self-preservation, it seemed the only right thing to do was to keep running.  Save himself from the fleeting sweetness of it.  They weren’t supposed to have easy answers - to be Sherlock’s only unsolvable problem, that’s what Jim strove for.  Even if it lost him sleep some nights, even if it went against everything he occasionally thought he wanted…  
  
There was a promise in Sherlock’s words that made running silly.  Jim could of course find an escape route, if he really wanted to keep Sherlock off his back, but the usual conflict was too appealing.  And he doubted Sherlock less now.  Or was it just the alcohol, and they’d both wake tomorrow wondering what the hell they’s been thinking?  
  
No.  Because Sherlock had called him ‘darling’.  Unprecedented, gorgeous, and would ring in his head for as long as he lived.  Which, if he wasn’t tremendously careful in descending, may not be long.   
  
His feet re-steadied along lower links even as he smiled at Sherlock, and murmured approvingly, “That’s what I like to hear.” Deceptively light banter for what had been a real…Moment.  But Jim had made up his mind, and cast his eyes down as he found new footholds, little by little, hand brushing across Sherlock’s when it reached for another link.  It was a halfhearted scurry, careful, dizzy all the way down, but knowing Sherlock would follow him made it work - until the last meter or so.  He’d glanced up to see if Sherlock was making it over the fence and thus distracted himself, a small noise of surprise falling from Jim’s lips as he slipped the rest of the way down.  The fence clanged with the jolting movement, and the criminal stumbled once he’d hit the ground.  Pain flared in his ankle, sharp and inconvenient, and he cursed under his breath, eyes on Sherlock.  Ow - the ankle hurt when he stepped back, and considered it.  Whose genius idea had this been anyway?  Oh, right.   
  
The options were to stay and be overwhelmed, or run until he couldn’t or was caught, physically gripped enough to stop him.  Well, that held its own special appeal!  The joint wasn’t broken, he knew that much, and once he’d recovered from the stumble, Jim was off again down the rest of the gangways, which only led to a labyrinth of alleys.  Heart pounding again, and soreness with every left step, but Sherlock deserved his best game.  Jim ran like the devil, no longer grinning but definitely curious as to what would happen when Sherlock caught up.  
  
-  
  
What an adventure this was turning out to be. Sherlock had been on physically exhausting cases, where he had been drop dead tired by the end of the day and had to continue to work into the night, but this was one of the only ones to actually take his breath away. Or was this even technically a case? Jim was technically running away from him, though he hadn’t actually caused any trouble that night. Well, not to any innocent patrons. Sherlock’s psyche was an entirely different story; he wasn’t sure that that would be back to normal any time soon after the night’s events and Jim would most likely be living there rent-free for weeks to come. Though he wouldn’t be divulging that little bit of news any time soon.  
  
The lilt of Jim’s voice, seemingly amplified by the narrow space, was enough to run another chill down Sherlock’s spine, coupled with the man’s apparent approval of his answer. Of course Sherlock knew that was the answer that he wanted - he was him, after all, and Jim did so like to be proven right, and Sherlock was more than willing to play along for the other’s entertainment, as he got entertainment out of it himself. The sudden brush of flesh against his own made him tighten his grip on the fence, further digging the links into his hand, all but letting out a shaky breath as he watched Jim begin to climb down.  
  
He started to ascend the rest of the way himself but after a clanging, his attention was distracted and he looked back down just in time to see the criminal tumble to the ground. His first instinct was to laugh, as he certainly wasn’t expecting such a smooth criminal such as Jim to fall on his behind from a few feet off of the ground. The next thing he thought to do was perhaps scramble over and help the man, but by the time Sherlock made it the rest of the way down the fence, he was off and running again. Sherlock turned and stared after him, not expecting for him to actually keep going. “Jim, wait!” he called, the criminal’s first name sounding strange on his tongue, as he was used to referring to the man as “Moriarty”. Surely he wasn’t still expecting for the chase to go on, considering he was injured. He ran after Jim anyway, determined to catch him and possibly stop their little game.  
  
-  
  
In the wild, a wounded animal was easy game for anyone higher up on the food chain.  As the urban jungle went, the consultants were evenly matched to an extent, though the pain that shot through Jim’s ankle was sharp, and a real bitch to push to the back of his mind.  Staying so distant from so many of his cases, he rarely had to outrun anyone; this was pure, brainless fun, but everything had a second meaning, and this was about persistence.  Letting Sherlock pursue; to either succeed or fail, that was up to the detective, who at present had the clear advantage.   
  
Jim heard the shout and a laugh left his lips between labored breaths.  Wait?  Oh, but he was done waiting!  Couldn’t Sherlock see and sense that?  Jim, who’d placed himself in the background at Bart’s so he might watch Sherlock unnoticed, and who had done everything in his resources and repertoire to ensnare his darling detective, was so very done waiting.  This nervous night had changed something between them, if only for awhile.  The same spark but with different fuel.  No matter how the rules of the game changed, Jim was prepared to adjust, amend, rewrite any of them in favor of getting closer to Sherlock.   
  
Halfway down the alley, Jim was wincing, and hated himself for inevitably slowing.  But he made a real show of it, whirling quickly around with arms spread wide open.  “What for?!” Jim called back almost gleefully as he walked backwards, eyes on the approaching figure of Sherlock.  If the pain showed on the criminal’s features, it was almost too dark to tell, but in his questioning tone was a challenge.  
  
-  
  
Perhaps it was just the haziness that was beginning to come over him, but Sherlock was beginning to experience a whole different range of emotions. Or, at least, different from what he usually felt, which could usually be summed up as contempt, boredom and occasionally, amusement towards others. Not sure if Jim had truly injured himself, coupled with an intense growl that was starting to form in his stomach, Sherlock did want to at least take a breather, on the ground this time. Feeling actual, genuine concern for the criminal was also a factor, of course, and his wishes seemed to have been granted when the man began to slow in front of him, Sherlock matching his speed and slowing himself.  
  
The abruptness of Jim turning and facing him was enough to make the detective retreat a bit, staying a safe distance away from him with this new found behaviour. The questioning tone of Jim’s voice sounded innocent enough, though the hint of a dare beneath it was throwing Sherlock off a bit. Why had he called for the man to wait? He was the one who had started this, after all, knowing that Sherlock would follow like a lost puppy and that he would be more than enthusiastic for the chase. But now, standing in the alley while slowly approaching an injured Jim Moriarty, he was met with overwhelming relief that he had at least slowed his pace.  
  
Oh, right. Jim was waiting for an answer. “Because - you’re…injured?” Sherlock tried, unsure, more of a question than a statement. Why in the hell should he care? Normally, he would relish the man’s pain, as it would make his job a whole lot easier, as an injured man wasn’t able to escape. But at the moment, he found himself experiencing actual worry, not willing to admit that Jim’s pain wasn’t worth their game of cat and mouse to the man’s face himself but knowing that it was the truth.  
  
-  
  
As he strode backwards still, a soft, incredulous little laugh fell from Jim’s lips.  Did Sherlock always give up when his target was wounded?  No, that wouldn’t be very effective at all.  This was a special case, them, and secretly the criminal was grateful, and amazed.  Jim was still catching his breath, and finally stopped walking altogether; he didn’t want to admit that it truly surprised him, Sherlock’s…well…caring.  He’d half-hoped to be caught, pinned maybe, some delicious and clumsily perilous capture, but this meant more.  Jim stayed put, thinking the distance between them was too far.  One hand dropped to his side, the other pressing dramatically over his heart.  “Darling!  I’m touched,” the criminal grinned, making a joke of it; if Sherlock knew how much he meant it, he’d be the one retreating full-speed.   
  
Jim wasn’t sure how to lure Sherlock nearer just now, aside from playing on the vulnerability, or how bad a shape his ankle was in - likely twisted, not sprained, but running anymore wasn’t wise.  Nor did he really want to.  He felt momentarily stunned by the show of…not warmth, exactly, but compassion.  The immensity of that was suddenly exhausting, too much to wrap a drunken brain around, and his expression turned thoughtful as he considered the situation.  Jim waited until his breath was back to normal, regarding Sherlock with a mix of wariness and muted excitement; both seemed present in his eyes.   
  
“Let’s get a taxi,” he suggested, eyebrows raising questioningly.  Jim didn’t know or name a specific destination, though he imagined they’d part ways soon.  Had to, didn’t they?  Too much of a good thing would ruin its appeal, and being under the influence was _not_ a good state in which to make game-changing decisions.  Yeah.  The cab could drop Sherlock at Baker Street, and then take Jim home, too.  Easy.  Simple.  Foolproof.  And the opposite of what some little voice in the back of his head seemed to long for.  But he wasn’t about to suggest otherwise only for _Sherlock_ to assert that it would be a bad idea.  Jim had to maintain control of the situation, even if Sherlock’s slow approach, full height and goddamn caring made him want to relinquish it.   
  
-  
  
It was never a disappointment to count on Jim for the theatrics. Perhaps the drinks had made him a bit more dramatic that night. Whatever the case, Sherlock desperately fought the urge to roll his eyes at the man, altogether at the same time relieved that he had been able to stop him. Sherlock was all too aware of the pain of running on injured legs and had a good idea that it must not have been too enjoyable for Jim to be running around on an injury. It was rather sweet, however, of Jim wanting to continue their little chase, even through the pain, so much so that it had taken Sherlock to put a stop to it for him to actually cease. The sarcasm, of course, was unbecoming of him though it wouldn’t surprise Sherlock if deep down, or later, Jim would admit his thanks.  
  
At least the criminal was beginning to talk sense now. Sherlock was fully aware that he would have had no problem with carrying Jim back home, bridal-style, had he asked but at the same time knew the many flaws with that idea. Jim would not under any circumstance divulge where he was currently hiding out at and he would most certainly scoff at the idea of being coddled, like a damsel in distress. The thought made Sherlock smile a tiny bit and he stepped towards Jim, closing the distance between them just a bit. “Good idea. Wouldn’t want you to trip over a daisy and injure the other ankle, after all.” He was making jokes, and attempting to act completely unaffected, but deep down, it was all an attempt to take his mind away from the inevitable.  
  
The moment they got into the taxi would be the beginning of the end. Sooner rather than later, Sherlock would be at the flat again, most likely beating John’s questions off with a stick if he hadn’t already gone to bed, would have to go back to playing the role of good detective. And Jim? He would go back to running his empire and write off the night as a fun bit of experimentation, never again to be returned to. The thought of that happening unnerved Sherlock, and so as not to show it, closed the distance the rest of the way and smiled at the criminal. “Need some help to the main road?”  
  
-  
  
A daisy; bastard.  It wasn’t that Jim was incapable of taking a joke - he himself had made a similar one about Sherlock and the stairs, so it was probably karma that caused his unfortunate stumble more than the fence.  But his expression had hardened around the eyes and lips as he looked up at Sherlock’s pale and lovely face, which was not as clear in his vision as it had been before the rum.  God, but he didn’t want to be away from him!  It was terrible and intoxicating, and just knowing what was possible— or had Sherlock merely been teasing him earlier, at the bar?  Mild confusion again.  ‘Help’ implied a proffered arm or the detective’s lithe frame to lean against.  Such irresistible warmth…it was a genuine offer Jim knew he’d be foolish to accept, because then he’d _really_ be unwilling to let the night end so soon.  But would he ever have the chance again?  
  
Jim took in a breath, and shook his head quickly, barely reigning in a scoff.  “No, m’fine,” he insisted, even as his eyes, desperate suddenly to escape the blue ones, ran over the very body he could’ve used for support.  James Moriarty was not about to be mollycoddled by Sherlock fucking Holmes, no siree.  Unthinkable.  He only hoped the very real conflict didn’t show on his face.  One thing to speak of it in texts, but another for Sherlock to see it.  To prove the point, Jim turned on the good ankle and winced his way through the steps down the alley.  His mind wasn’t working properly, and yes, the chase had been a laugh, but finished now, all he had was the alcohol haze, the bum ankle, and the man he loathed and adored all at once, and very simply didn’t know what to do with!  Everything at once, apparently - including sending him away, just to keep his pride and careful distance.  
  
Jim strode in silence, hands in the pockets of his coat, sensing more than seeing Sherlock beside him.  He wanted them to take the same taxi, but what if Sherlock wanted his own?  What if Sherlock was tired of him already?  Jim had sense enough to doubt that, but it gnawed at the criminal’s mind as a possibility.  At the end of the alley - a missed opportunity of some sort - light and life enwrapped them again, cars winding by.  Jim kept his eyes peeled and arm raised for a taxi, determined not to stare too much at Sherlock, the man who always saw too much.  His ankle smarted consistently, and when he should’ve voiced gratitude that Sherlock had come out with him at all, he was quiet and aloof.  It was only once a taxi was slowing that he turned towards Sherlock, and asked softly, “Let me see you home?” Making certain they’d share the cab.  Not wanting to lose sight of him just yet.  Jim wanted every last bit of Sherlock he could get.  
  
-  
  
Had Sherlock been more of an emotional person, he would have shown his disappointment at the rejection of his offer for help. But rather than wearing his heart on his sleeve, a brief flicker of said emotion washed over his features in the form of a wrinkle of the nose. Had he offended the man, or angered him? It seemed possible with that last comment, but it only seemed like innocent banter. Much more innocent than anything that they had done in their little display at the bar, at least, where a lot more had been at stake. If the roles had been reversed, and Sherlock was the one with the injured ankle, he imagined he would have gladly accepted the offer.  
  
Surely he was reading too much into this. He wasn’t a teenage girl, for god’s sake, and he certainly wasn’t the hero ready to save the hurt Jim, and therefore had no right to be even remotely upset about the entire situation. It was most likely the damned alcohol, messing with his emotions and thought processing. Would he still be acting in the same way had he decided not to drink alongside Jim? Would he have made the same decisions, played along in the criminal’s game any other day of the week? It was foolish to say yes, preposterous to say no. It was unfair to base his decision on alcohol, most of all, as he wasn’t exactly a booze hound.  
  
Walking alongside Jim to the main road proved to be quite awkward and Sherlock’s eyes darted to rest upon the man more often than he would care to admit, hoping to find some indication of how he was truly feeling. Then again, on second thought, he certainly didn’t want Jim to catch his eye and possibly see the look of obvious longing for…what, exactly? Whatever it was, it was dangerous to show, especially to the most dangerous man in London, no less. He watched as Jim called for a cab and felt relief wash over every sense in his body as the man offered to see him home. It was touching, in a way, and there was no way Sherlock could say no.  
  
Another issue was pressing in his mind, however. “Don’t you want that looked at?” he asked quietly, more hesitatingly than not. Nevertheless, he stepped for the door and took hold of the handle, opening it and gesturing for Jim to go inside first. Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not a gentleman, at least.  
  
-  
  
This time the detective’s concern sounded more matter-of-fact than motherly, probably since he was accustomed to having a doctor on hand to patch him up after cases.  Jim’s eyes rolled slightly as he shifted past Sherlock to the open door, his coat brushing the other in the process.  “I’m not an amputee, Sherlock, it’s just twisted, relax,” he urged the other in an almost reassuring murmur, if not a little slurred, and slid into the backseat of the taxi.  Jim settled against the very door, ensuring Sherlock and his ridiculously long legs had enough room.   
  
He wondered idly how the booze was settling with the other, if he was drunk or tired or dizzy.  Jim felt faintly dizzy, but the throb in his ankle kept him alert, as did the fact that the space right beside him was now occupied by his favorite distraction.  The evening could be seen as a success, in some regards; the very closeness was one of them.  “221b Baker Street,” Jim directed the cabbie before Sherlock could, and leaning back against the seat, turned his glance to the man beside him.  
  
Those eyes, those lips, the knee once more so near to his own - all were pinpoints of temptation.  It was very doubtful they’d be seen in the back of a taxi under the cover of night and movement, wasn’t it?  On Jim’s own lips was an inscrutable little smile, one that touched only one half of his face and could turn cruel at any moment.  “If you’d been the injured one, I’d have kept running,” Jim declared blithely, watching Sherlock’s face for a reaction.  It was a bold-faced, outright lie, one Jim wasn’t sure why he’d said the moment it rolled off his tongue.   
  
-   
  
Leave it to Jim to be stubborn, even more so than Sherlock and that was saying something. If the man did not want to get the injury looked at, it was on him. It would simply make Sherlock’s job of catching him easier in the future. Where in the hell did that come from? Force of habit, it must have been, a simple reaction to his thoughts wandering to Jim. He climbed in next to the criminal after rolling his eyes in response to his comment, settling in the back comfortably, spreading his legs a little more than necessary and stretching out. It was rather cute to see the after effects of the drinks making their way through Jim and Sherlock smiled absent-mindedly.  
  
There didn’t seem to be much of a major effect that had taken a toll on Sherlock, other than the developing caring feelings for the enemy bit and the constant rumbling in his stomach, though that was most likely due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten all day. Hopefully the memory of the night would remain with him tomorrow; he wasn’t so sure about Jim, however. Perhaps the dull pain in his ankle would spark the memory of the night again. The thought made Sherlock chuckle, sounding more like a giggle as it passed from his lips in a higher octave than normal. He turned to look at Jim and his eyes traveled downwards without meaning to, resting on his hands, the same one that had rested on his own knee -  
  
“Are you saying you wouldn’t have been my Prince Charming?” Sherlock asked, playfully, before realising it was probably an incredibly strange thing t o say. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he diverted his gaze to the floor of the taxi, shifting in the seat. He supposed he should have been more perturbed at Jim’s confession, though it didn’t bother him all that much, expecting nothing less of the criminal, after all. It was more troublesome to think of the words that had just tumbled from his lips.  
  
-  
  
Jim had both feared and counted on a recoiling, and was secretly relieved and surprised when it didn’t happen.  Sherlock seemed only to recoil from his own words, unguarded as they were, and that pleased Jim somehow, that glimmer of doubt.  At least he wasn’t the only conflicted one.   
  
“That’s precisely what I’m saying,” Jim answered, seeing the lie through, yet Sherlock’s flirtation wasn’t for naught. The criminal huffed out a little sigh, and murmured derisively, “That’s the stuff of Disney fairytales.” Even as he uttered it, his head was tilting slightly towards Sherlock’s shoulder until he was resting on it.  Mixed messages, yes, hate on his tongue but cautious, trusting affection in the gesture.  Right hand limp on the seat between them, his big brown eyes fluttered closed, not wanting to know or see if Sherlock was displeased at being his nemesis’ pillow.   
  
The vehicle had been paused at a red light and then turned, pressing Jim all the more firmly into Sherlock’s left arm, and he felt - content?  Well, it didn’t matter what he felt, so long as he was able to keep Sherlock guessing.  Not sleepy, yet his eyes remained closed, his breathing slow and calm.  In his present state, he didn’t know what he wanted - either more of Sherlock’s voice or the companionable silence.  The drunkenness would dull either, and thank Christ for that; feeling any of this too keenly would do his head in, and nag at his black heart for nights to come.


	9. If your body matches what your eyes can do, you'll probably move right through me on my way to you.

If ever there was a personification of mood swings, Jim was it. Though at least at the moment, they weren’t quite as volatile such as the display at the pool. He supposed he should be thankful for that and would rather have swings between brutal honesty and compassion than the urge to kill and anger. Though, all four emotions did make up Jim Moriarty, though the compassion bit was perhaps a bit harder to see at times. It certainly made itself known tonight and Sherlock was glad that he had been lucky enough to get a slight glimpse of it.  
  
Which is precisely why it wasn’t exactly a shock to him when a sudden weight rested on his shoulder. He tilted his head to look down at the resting form of Jim and resisted the urge to graze the hairs on the back of his neck. He exhaled slowly, trying hard not to inhale the criminal below him. Finding his left hand, he extended it slowly from between the two of them, raising it and wondering idly if this would be a bad idea. The hand hovered a bit, hesitatingly, before Sherlock finally let it rest carefully on Jim’s arm..  
  
It was a good thing that it was dark out and fairly dark in the taxi itself or Sherlock most likely wouldn’t have had the courage to do that. Even after the fact, he was ready to pull it back at the first sign of discomfort from Jim, though for now, was content with the awkward but shared display of affection, sighing softly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he murmured.  
  
-  
  
Even through the layers of his coat and shirt, Jim could feel the warmth in the press of Sherlock’s hand and a faint smile turned his lips up at the corners.  Teasing, running, mocking his concern - it sent messages mixed enough to make Sherlock the pursuer, and Jim found he liked that very much.  It was a perfect gauge of where he stood in Sherlock’s estimation, and perhaps things weren’t half as hopeless as Jim fancied it beneficial to think.  “I know,” he sighed eyes still closed, for it they opened, resignation or disappointment might be visible in them.  Could things be different?  Well, maybe, but they weren’t.  This was still the same game.   
  
Jim shifted, his cheek sleepily nuzzling the rough fabric of Sherlock’s coat, and though he wanted to pretend the touch on his arm meant nothing, it was irresistible!  His arm moved, fingers capturing Sherlock’s and entwining loosely with them, thumb resting against palm and stroking gently.  Jim’s chest rose and fell with a long, appreciative breath.  God.  Why had he done that?  Would be so hard to let go now.  He’d have given a lot to see it, but playing up the inebriation just now seemed useful.  Whatever he said, Sherlock might presume he was drunk-babbling, and would forget it later.  Jim, of course, would do no such thing.  Not when he’s given too much thought in the past to what it’d be like to sit with Sherlock, just like this.  And the hand holding his own was so warm.  
  
Jim might have asked if Sherlock was glad he’d come out tonight, but the answer was obvious, wasn’t it?  It seemed dizzyingly possible that his darling detective had been waiting for such a moment.  Did the reasons matter?  They’d managed to have a date, rather like ordinary people, and surprise each other repeatedly; that was a good thing, but Jim was determined, at least verbally, to downplay the importance of it.  To keep Sherlock guessing was to keep Sherlock.  He didn’t try to sharpen the natural slur of the words, when he spoke.  “And the fact that I want you doesn’t change anything,” he murmured, eyelids finally parting to stare down at their hands; Sherlock had beautiful hands.  It was a double-edged sword of a sentence, as Jim had intended it to be, revealing and retreating at once.  If Sherlock had it in his mind to question or argue it, the criminal counted on his contradictory spirit, as one counted on the presence of oxygen, to do so.  And if he didn’t, well.  Jim could pretend to forget ever having said it, letting its truth speak for itself.  
  
-  
  
If ever there were a game-changer, this would have to be it. Sherlock would have liked a bit more of a warning prior to it, though he supposed the rest of the night was a bit of a heads up, but it seemed to him that he was adapting rather quickly. Romance and all that had always taken a bit of a back burner as opposed to a necessity, though if Irene was anything to go by, he must have had some flair for it. And, as he had told the Woman before, the chemistry is simple and incredibly destructive and was a thing to be avoided, locked away with the other useless bits of information. Which is why he was currently seated in the back of a dark taxi, practically cuddling and holding hands with Jim Moriarty.  
  
The moment he felt Jim’s shorter fingers find his and wrap around them, Sherlock’s eyes darted down to watch, though he wasn’t exactly surprised. It hadn’t come as much of a shock as when they had first had physical contact, and of course, willingly, earlier in the night. Now it was more a pleasant surprise, one that Sherlock gladly welcomed. It did occur to him that this was all a result of the alcohol, if Jim’s next slurred confession was anything to go by, though he also realised that he didn’t exactly care. It may have seemed a bit cheap but at that moment, Sherlock was unable to imagine any other place he would rather be.  
  
The light strokes on his palm reminded him of what Jim had said, clearing his thoughts. He gripped Jim’s fingers tightly so that he was more properly holding hands, smiling faintly. Although it was cute how Jim was trying to feign indifference to their predicament, the smaller hand in his own was a bit more telling. Leaning over, careful not to disturb Jim’s position, he settled close to his ear. “Are you sure?” he breathed quietly. “Your hand in my own says otherwise.” It was barely above a whisper and Sherlock squeezed to make his point, knowing that he was walking a dangerous line but certainly not willing to step back from it.  
  
-  
  
Even the simple slide of Sherlock’s fingers through his own was extremely worth his attention, a visual and tactile treat the likes of which might never come again.  Time, or the car, or the world itself, was moving very slowly.  The back of his hand pressed to the side of Sherlock’s leg…no more than holding the man’s hand and Jim was entranced, but gaze purposely dull.  Sherlock, Sherlock.  What could he be thinking just now?  Jim was hyper-aware not only of his own pulse but Sherlock’s too, where their wrists met. And it was a damn funny thing, but they were nearly in unison.   
  
He had only a moment to dwell on that before there was a caress of warm breath near his ear, sending a shiver helplessly down his back again.  Bastard.  When Sherlock lowered his voice thus, one felt inclined to listen, and the criminal’s lips parted with a lost breath.  Yeah, alright, Mr. Clever had worked out in the bar how to play Jim’s senses perfectly, and even drunk his eyes snapped open in surprise.  Was Sherlock teasing, or being contrary with real purpose?  For the moment, it was difficult to care which.  His fingers tightened against Sherlock’s reflexively, direct reaction to the whispers, though it was really only an observation on Sherlock’s part.   
  
This time it wasn’t what he said, more…how he said it.  It brought Jim’s face up from the wool-clad shoulder, chin still pressed there, and he blinked as if to clear a haze.  In the dark and with pupils huge, his eyes appeared just black, either a void or the very cover of night.  When he smiled, a Cheshire grin of sudden wonder, his eyebrows rose too.  “Does it?” he asked, fingers twitching against Sherlock’s again, lips just a few inches from the ones he couldn’t quite keep his eyes off of all night.  The words ‘now or never’ came to mind, but were useless to him unless they occurred to Sherlock, too.  
  
-  
  
Perhaps Sherlock was going a bit on the wild side and pushing boundaries, even his own boundaries, a bit. In all honesty, it was just the tiniest bit of fun. To keep Jim on edge was a delight and Sherlock relished seeing every new reaction and slight emotion that he expressed. This kind of behaviour was expected from Jim, was anticipated and a normalcy. Not from Sherlock which is why it made it so delicious. He couldn’t imagine doing this sort of thing with anyone else but Jim, because he _got_ it. The delightfully cryptic conversation at the bar, the chase that made his heart pound in his chest and hadn’t slowed, the simple relaxing after said chase. It was all particularly…pleasant. Felt domestic, even. If this was what being with someone felt like, it wouldn’t be bad at all.  
  
Even with Jim inches away underneath him, Sherlock still managed to wonder exactly what he wanted. He supposed he should have known prior to actually agreeing to come out that night with the criminal, but it had mostly been a play it by ear sort of thing the entire time. It was strangely liberating to actually be able to express himself, and able to actually be himself without worrying what the other person thought of him. Because Sherlock knew exactly what Jim thought and that was why they were in their current situation, and why Sherlock was having an raging internal conflict at the moment.  
  
Every previous moment spent with Jim came rushing to the front of his mind in that short period of time, from their very first conversation to meeting him, to _properly_ meeting him, to all of the brilliant games he had come up with. Just to get Sherlock to come out and play. It was touching and exciting and simply gorgeous and he smiled slowly, staring down at the black pupils below him. “You tell me,” he murmured, keeping his eyes fixed on Jim the entire time, before leaning down and closing the distance.  
  
-  
  
It never _had_ to come to this, really.  That was the horrible thing about apathy, was that Jim could have been content with the game as it had been, kept every personal wish and bits of loneliness out of it.  But he hadn’t counted in the beginning on becoming so smitten, or on ending up hand-in-hand with Sherlock Holmes in the back of a taxi.  Inevitable yet a surprise all the same, and as Sherlock smiled, Jim was certain the cerulean eyes that bore into his own looked softer than he’d ever seen them.   
  
They had their cleverness, their games, their respective pedestals in each other’s mind, the grand schemes and spiderwebs, but this…this was something real.  Jim felt it when his traitorous heart literally skipped a beat and his eyes closed once more, neck craning back at just enough of a tilt, just so.   
  
And then everything fell away:  
  
the taxi’s radio, the throb in his ankle, the countdown of minutes to Baker Street.  Nothing existed but the sudden gentle press of Sherlock’s lips against his own, just there, close, star-crossed magnets, great minds breathing each other in.  Oh, hell.  If he hadn’t been three sheets to the wind before, he was drunk on Sherlock now.  Jim’s right hand gripped back, and with a sigh against Sherlock’s lips, the left rose and settled upon his pale angular cheek.  Touching the untouchable.  Jim always did have a way of making himself the exception to most rules, but it never mattered until it mattered to Sherlock.  He could wander off happily to hell any day now, having had a glimpse of heaven.  The criminal mastermind breathed something incomprehensible, something that may have been the detective’s name, and may have been trembling as his tongue darted along Sherlock’s all-too-inviting lower lip.  
  
-  
  
Despite the fact that Sherlock’s heart beat was most likely spiking into the danger zone at the moment and showed no signs of dropping any time soon, he would say that that bout of bravery seemed to have worked out. Especially if Jim’s tightening hand in his own was of any indication to go by. He let his eyes flutter closed, content with simply connecting with Jim on a physical level, without needing to see his face.  
  
Oh, and physical it was. The definite taste of alcohol was on Jim’s lips, something that Sherlock didn’t recognize but still tasted quite good. Coupled with the sheer musk of Jim, it was assaulting Sherlock’s senses, and then the unintelligible breath that tumbled from his lips. He wasn’t sure when his last kiss was, or if it ever actually occurred, but those were to now be filed away and deleted, this new experience to be classified as his first proper kiss and the baseline to all future ones to be compared to. Jim, of course, wouldn’t have the same problem, and would probably store this away as an ordinary, run of the mill bout.  
  
A sigh of content ness escaped from Sherlock’s lips as Jim rested his other hand on his cheek, wanting to lean into it but not daring to even slightly pull away. With the first free thought, he lifted his right hand and lightly rested it on the nape of Jim’s neck, stroking the short hairs that were apparent. The tongue at his bottom lip prompted him to free his own, quickly brushing it with the criminal’s before retreating just as fast, a sudden quiet groan being passed to Jim’s lips.  
  
-  
  
Sinking - that’s what this was.  Letting the moment pull him under and steal his breath.  And Jim realized then how silly it had been to run, especially from the one person who delighted truly in chasing him.  It didn’t matter one jot where or how fast he could run, there was no escaping this, the stunning reality of so many of his idle thoughts.  Sherlock’s lips were just as soft as they looked, and at the touch of cool fingertips along his neck, Jim was drowning.  The resolve that had kept him afloat had become a freefalling anchor - gone, yet pinning him to the spot.  No breath, no brains. Just darling Sherlock.  
  
Jim’s fingers brushed his cheek and jaw line, mapping out flesh and bone, and this wouldn’t be happening if they were sober but what did that matter?  Even Sherlock had to realize how useful this might be for putting one’s overworked brain on Mute.  Jim’s had fled at the skittish brush of Sherlock’s tongue and he felt warmer all over, and dizzier.  It was the sound, though, that breathy little rumble, that brought spiraling back to mind exactly who he was dealing with – _his_ Sherlock, in this moment _all_ his, mind and body both, and with alcohol to blame it all went to hell.  Yes.  Jim was an idiot to have run.  
  
He made up for it now, pulling away from Sherlock just far enough to really look at him; to see the gorgeous halo of mad curls, the mix of surprise and something else entirely in the bright blue eyes and parted lips.  Jim ran his thumb over Sherlock’s full lower lip and licked his own, breathless and stunned for only a moment.  Heat, hunger, appreciation for everything about this beautiful thorn in his side; there weren’t words for it so Jim said it with another kiss.  His sometimes-bitten nails grazed carelessly down the side of Sherlock’s neck, and when their lips met again it wasn’t so much a caress but a collision.  Jim’s shoulders had risen from the seat, body melting further against Sherlock’s, gripping his hand almost too hard, and there was a fervor there hadn’t been before.  Oh, god, the cab would stop eventually, and that was a terrible thing, but Jim wanted to draw more pretty noises from Sherlock and to not care what either would make of it come morning.  His tongue sought Sherlock’s again and with purpose, a helpless growling moan muffled in the crush of lips.  If Sherlock pushed him away, Jim would die.  He’d been so patient, after all, and maybe they wouldn’t get another moment like this one.  He doubted Sherlock had dreamt of this the way he had, but he might ever after.  Jim hoped so, hand threading into those lovely curls as if to plant the impression in his very skull.  
  
-  
  
What a thrilling experience it was to actually be mouth to mouth, practically tonguing what was supposed to be his arch nemesis. What Sherlock had told his dear flat mate the day they had met was true - he was indeed married to his work. And his work was currently driving him a bit wild in the form of a hand trailing down his jaw. If this was what marriage was like, Sherlock would propose to Jim tomorrow. It was thrilling, terrifying and definitely out of his element, though he didn’t really want that to show. Surely Jim knew how little experience was truly there, what with his cute little nickname, though to actually show his lack of expertise was not an option.  
  
The thought occurred that at some point, they would have to break away, though he was more expecting himself to initiate it rather than Jim. What he hadn’t expected was Jim to stare back at him so intensely, even with dark eyes, perhaps even a bit clouded. Sherlock expected he must have at least somewhat mirrored that look. The thumb running over his lip was a purely gentle act, a behavioural dissonance from what Sherlock originally thought of Jim. Caressing was simply not something he imagined was the criminal’s forte and he certainly wasn’t prepared for the soft touch that made his insides practically melt. It was strange and he wanted more of it.  
  
Though, in true Moriarty fashion, it didn’t last for very long and the next thing Sherlock knew, Jim was on him with a renewed passion, accented finely with short fingernails making their way down his neck. That felt particularly…nice, and Sherlock showed his appreciation with a low whine against the criminal’s lips. He squeezed back with equal force and dug his fingernails on the hand at Jim’s neck in, gently at first. The hand settling itself in his hair was a pleasant surprise and he expressed this by freeing his own tongue once again, albeit this time with more confidence and less apprehension, soothing Jim’s own frantic one by lightly brushing against it. It idly occurred to him, somewhere in a part of his mind that wasn’t being assaulted with this new experience, that they could have been being watched by the driver or that they’d already arrived, though it didn’t really matter much. If it had stopped, surely the driver would point it out though Sherlock was uncertain if he would actually listen.  
  
-  
  
It nagged at the back of Jim’s mind to savor this but not push his luck; indeed, the fingers in Sherlock’s hair were surprisingly gentle, absentminded more than forceful.  His attention, his very soul, was locked onto the kiss, and Jim couldn’t remember the last time such a thing had made the world disappear.  Mere lust wasn’t unusual but this was all-consuming because it was Sherlock, and he was making _sounds_ again, probably without even realizing it.   
  
Probably didn’t realize either that they were burning Jim up from the inside out, or did he?  One could only wonder, and it was difficult to suppress a shuddering gasp when he felt Sherlock’s nails.  Sweet merciful Christ.  This bordered on unfair, really, winding each other up when they’d be parting ways soon, and Sherlock need only glance down to know the effect he had on the criminal.  The drinks served to dull Jim’s judgment but not his senses, overwhelmed and on overdrive.  And it was a damn good thing one hand was occupied with Sherlock’s, or it would wander.  He wanted to devour him completely, and had to settle for pursing his lips around Sherlock’s tongue, sucking for a teasing half-second before grazing his teeth along it.  He breathed shallow through his nose, heart pounding, and it was everything he could do not to pull Sherlock down closer, more…Jim’s body strained towards the other but the confines of the taxi had set limits.  Most other limits - imaginary, they seemed now - were but a memory, and good riddance to them.  Jim broke the kiss only when he could barely breathe, exhaling hotly against Sherlock’s cheek, his chin.   
  
“Darling…” The word was a purr, and Jim tilted his head enough to press a worshipful kiss to Sherlock’s throat.  He didn’t _want_ to be so easily and obviously effected, and simply tried to catch his breath, smiling, dazed.  “God, Sherlock…”  Jim just couldn’t resist another kiss to his neck.  “Want to just take you home with me…” he murmured, wonder in his voice.  Just because it wasn’t wise or likely, didn’t mean he couldn’t say it.  If that happened, Jim would never let Sherlock leave!  More teasing little kisses, too drunk and benevolent-minded to bite, too focused on the lovely pale skin to realize the car had stopped at a red light all too unfortunately close to where the detective dwelt with his blogger.  They had maybe a block or two, but Jim didn’t want to know.  “Hmmm, you’re lovely…” He wasn’t looking to hear the sentiment returned but couldn’t keep from voicing it, a pleased little hum against Sherlock’s skin, fingers making circles over curls and scalp, hypnotic and light.  Proof that Jim didn’t have to force anything or pin Sherlock down to render him susceptible.  The possibility that Sherlock had wanted this all along was too beautiful to crush with force.  
  
-  
  
It was plainly obvious that Jim was rather enjoying himself, though to anyone who had a glimpse into the back of the dark taxi, it was quite evident that Sherlock was not too far from the same. Oh, if anyone were able to see him now, it would have been quite the shock. It was a shame that he would not be able to tell anyone the events of the night, save for Jim, who was a whole different case himself. No, this little secret would be shared just between the two of them, locked away until Sherlock recalled it in the middle of a sleepless night. Jim would most likely do the same and it would be their dirty little secret.  
  
Except, it wasn’t so dirty. It wasn’t sloppy or handsy; that would cheapen the experience. Neither Sherlock nor Jim were the sort to get messy. It was simply beneath them, and what better effects would have come out of such a kiss than what they were sharing at the moment, that was drawing sounds from Sherlock that he had never in his life made before. And, if the sound Jim had just uttered was anything to go by, sounds he had never heard come from someone else, let alone a sound that he himself had coaxed. It seemed unbelievable but he was relishing it, wanting to hear what else the criminal sounded like in this state. Jim was an instrument to be played and Sherlock wanted to discover each new sound he could make.  
  
A groan from his own mouth filled his ears as Jim suddenly played with his tongue. Reflexively, he dug his nails in a bit more, instinctively pulling Jim closer to him only to have him pull away a moment later. The reminder to breathe had been lost in the short amount of time, though what felt like hours, they had been together, and he was grateful to Jim lest one of them pass out. What a fantastic way to go it would be, however.  
  
The sound of Jim’s voice after not hearing it for so long was surprising, and the purring undertone of it coupled with the press of lips on his throat sent a shiver down his spine. God, how Jim knew what made him unravel. A quick look outside of the taxi’s window revealed how close they were, how close the night was to ending. A sudden realisation struck him that he did not particularly wish to go back. Not just yet, anyway, and certainly not after Jim was gently pressing through his curls. It felt all too surreal, it was something Sherlock had never before experienced and he found he rather enjoyed it too much to give it up so quickly.  
  
Sherlock looked back down at Jim, a look of pure longing evident on his face. He moved his hand from Jim’s neck to his cheek, a bit warm and lightly stroked his thumb over it. “Gorgeous,” he murmured, a bit trance-like as he stared down at the criminal. “Brilliant…don’t want to go.” It was barely above a whisper, almost choked, not intending for Jim to hear it.  
  
-  
  
Jim was losing sight of the bigger picture, the game that promised death around any corner; this was life!  This was Sherlock’s breath as heavy as his own, and hadn’t Jim called it from the start?  Sherlock was only human, and the criminal had managed to knock the younger Iceman off his high horse for awhile, and it was wondrous.  The blurry lines of his very dreams sharpening, shadows turning full-color. And god, but Sherlock’s eyes really were like jewels.  It wasn’t all the stuff of poet’s verse, it was the truth, and Jim rarely said things he didn’t at least somewhat mean.   
  
He was hooked to the heat in Sherlock’s gaze.  But what could he _do_ about it?  Far too gone now to run, though anyone with sense could have known the jig was up the moment he invited Sherlock for drinks. Master of self-delusion, easily entertained my the meanderings of his own mind, it had never really mattered whether Sherlock wanted him.  But now Jim had the look of a deer in headlights, all because his dear detective had called him gorgeous, and the touch on his face was almost too gentle to be believed.  Either Sherlock cherished Jim in his own subtle way, or was just as overwhelmed as the man who’d only torn his eyes from that swanlike neck to watch those utterly kissable lips form words.  Reeling, Jim laughed softly, the hand in Sherlock’s hair moving to the nape of his neck, wishing he could spider it up into Sherlock’s brain!  - unlock it like a door, and stay awhile.  Jim settled for making little circles on Sherlock’s skin, because what thoughts could be found there, when neither were really thinking?  
  
“This is…” Jim struggled to say despite a dry mouth and shaky breaths, pressing like a contented cat against the hand on his face.  “Arguably, the least-“  His hand loosened in the other’s just a little, eager to be free to roam, but didn’t pull away yet.  “The least brilliant thing we’ve ever done, dearest,” Jim at last finished his quip, a hint of amazement in his tone, which turned soft.  “I’d even call it common,” he murmured, “if it were anyone but us.” Anyone but Sherlock, he meant, but like attracted like.  Jim kissed him again, a light brush, and leaned in just enough to press his forehead to Sherlock’s, exhaling slowly.  Where did they go from here?  This chapter got rewritten a million times over in his head, but always edited out in the end. He never really expected Sherlock to change their story up like this.  And if he’d read Sherlock’s lips right, that he didn’t want this to end so soon, that begged the question, what _did_ he want?  The possibilities drew a small groan from Jim, frustration and anticipation combined, eyelashes brushing Sherlock’s cheek when they fluttered.  He could stay like this all night, this close - tomorrow Jim might hate himself for having shown such vulnerabilities to the “enemy”, but he’d still adore Sherlock.  It was the only problem he couldn’t fix.   
  
-  
  
To show overwhelming emotion of any kind was a dangerous thing, as was to make declarations that could not be lived up to, but both Sherlock and Jim had engaged in both behaviours that night, had they not? And neither one had met their fate, nor had the world ended. All that _did_ happen was a shared confession of mutual desire, even if it had been encouraged by a variety of certain liquids, though Sherlock knew neither one of them would have had the courage to actually do something so it was all for the best. They were grown men and perfectly capable of being responsible for their actions, even if they were currently acting like a couple of teenagers who were madly in love.  
  
The effect of a simple tender gesture on the criminal came as a bit of a surprise to Sherlock, though, and Jim looked bewildered by the compliment given to him. It did make sense, however, for if Sherlock thought about it, it was quite likely that the man had never actually been called gorgeous before, which was just a tiny bit sad. Sherlock had been the receiver of said compliment numerous times, though physical beauty was just one of the things that popped into his head when he thought of Jim. No, it was more his beautiful mind, how he knew how to play Sherlock and get him to come running. To be able to successfully do so was quite the feat yet Jim made it look effortless. His insights on simple everyday living, playing with the ordinary people and finding new distractions were what drew Sherlock in. A quick thought occurred that he would never again experience the boredom he so often did had he lived with Jim.  
  
The circling hand at the nape of his neck made him arch his back, pressing his already too close body more into Jim’s, eagerly accepting another generous kiss from the criminal breathlessly. Pulling away, he had to laugh, moving his hands to grip at Jim’s shoulders tightly. “Arguably indeed,” he started, enjoying the sheer closeness that they were sharing at the moment. “I can’t think of anything more brilliant than kissing the most gorgeous person with the most wonderful mind.” It was cheesy as all hell and only came out as a rushed whisper, but was entirely the truth, and Jim may have thought him foolish for saying so but very rarely was Sherlock able to express his feelings, let alone convey them properly. If anyone would be able to understand his ramblings, it had to be Jim. It just had to be.  
  
-  
  
Such intoxicating closeness.  It required the sort of restraint Jim less certain he had by the minute.  If not for the confines of the taxi, now would be an awfully good time to clamber atop the other man’s lap.  Even the caress of Sherlock’s breath against his cheek had his attention, and where was it coming from, all this sudden sentiment?  The words weren’t taunting at his ear, so they weren’t purely a tease, and they tumbled so naturally from Sherlock’s lips that it wasn’t practiced flattery.  Either way, Sherlock was winning that argument.  The logic was sound, as Jim couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be, either.   
  
Brilliant, gorgeous, wonderful; Sherlock may have uttered these words about Jim before, but it was the first time the world-weary genius was hearing them from him, and it made every painstaking detail of every job worth it if it meant Sherlock appreciated him.  Who else ever could, truly?  Sherlock had a semi-comprehending audience of John and all who read the blog, but Jim only raised questions marks in society’s mind.  Why he did the things he did, and how.  Only Sherlock could guess at the full scope of his work, and lend the questions yet-enigmatic answers.  But sweet nothings?  That was new, and Jim would never forget them.   
  
“Mmm…you’re drunk,” Jim decided in a whisper, smile evident in the words.  It wasn’t to discount Sherlock’s admission, but it struck Jim as too overwhelmingly sweet to be believed.  The strength of the hands on his shoulders made him bet that Sherlock would be a good masseur if he tried.  His left hand stopped the stroking, palm flat against the back of Sherlock’s neck, simply holding him there.  The right he’d tried to glue to the seat but it just didn’t work, moving to Sherlock’s knee with a grip that said something of the tension of his present state.  Jim broke the press of their foreheads to place a little kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s lips, unable to keep away from them, torn between ravishing that pretty mouth and letting it continue to form words.  He was he best sort of dizzy, and felt as if Sherlock were the only force keeping him upright.  Jim knew in some dim place in his head that they were approaching Baker Street, but his body was oblivious to this fact, wanting more, god!  Couldn’t, shouldn’t get them a room, or sneak into 221b, or any other place that they’d be alone and flout further the rules of the game.  But how could he let Sherlock go, now?  He’d wanted so to avoid this sort of thing!  “Guess I’m not the only conflicted one…” he murmured, leaning like a crutch on their previous conversation, trusting it to make some sense of the spinning world.  
  
-  
  
It simply wasn’t fair how Jim thought he could just walk into Sherlock’s life and seduce him with his brilliant mind and violent creativity and then waltz out of it just as quickly. So maybe that wasn’t exactly the case, but with each passing moment closing the distance between them and 221B, that was sure what it felt like. With every second more that he spent with Jim, it made him want to stay even more and it tugged at his chest. It was strange, as he certainly hadn’t felt like this at the beginning of the night. There was the want to simply be in proximity of the criminal, but it hadn’t been like this, with a dull ache attached to the want. He idly wondered if he would ever be able to feel this way about someone or something again, as it wasn’t a bad feeling at all.  
  
Though, Sherlock did wonder about Jim, too. Did he feel the same way the detective did? It was completely plausible, though it wasn’t as if Jim had to hide those kinds of feelings. The destructive man seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve at times, which seemed a bit reckless, though he supposed Jim could afford to do so, considering his status. Other than the delightfully distracting kisses they had shared, was Jim just as undone as Sherlock was feeling?  
  
Perhaps, though from his little comment on Sherlock’s drink intake, it seemed wasn’t much of a problem to him. Ruefully, Sherlock nodded, though shrugged his shoulders while doing so. Yes, of course he was - drunk on finally connecting his own mind with the only other one to match him. Who wouldn’t have been completely over the moon at such a feeling? “Maybe,” he retorted, matter-of-factly. A smile came across his face as Jim placed a tiny kiss near his mouth. That was far too tender for anyone, least of all Jim, to do sober. “But we wouldn’t be here right now if I wasn’t.” It was simply a confession of the truth, certainly not bad in any way, but a sober fact. “Because I wouldn’t have had the courage to kiss you.” He slowly tightened his grip on Jim’s shoulders to emphasise his point. “So maybe it’s a good thing.” He finished with a soft kiss to Jim’s lips, knowing that the taxi was drawing nearer, wanting to steal another one before it stopped.  
  
-  
  
Jim’s brain was just functional enough to break down the sentences, to realize they were the exact same thing he might have said.  Great minds thought alike, indeed.  Even the part about courage; had Sherlock really needed courage for such a thing?  He’d known with more certainty than Jim did that such a gesture wouldn’t be coldly rebuffed, so why courage?  Did he truly not realize, how very much Jim wanted him?  How tragic.  The criminal had made it plain time and again, and only now did Sherlock seem to believe it.  Well, they were both selfish creatures in their own way.  Maybe it took feeling the sting of it for himself, to understand what Jim felt all too often.   
  
Whether it was a good thing in the long run was too big to consider at the moment, mentally and physically distracted as he was.  Jim accepted the kiss gratefully, deepening it at the first chance he got, tongue caressing Sherlock’s, a soft moan reverberating through his chest.  More, yes!  This was heaven and hell at once, and when he felt the taxi roll to a stop, he winced inwardly.  The cabbie had been good so far to leave them alone, but that wouldn’t last now.  Jim dimly heard the voice up front announce a number, money, right.  It meant getting his favorite distraction away, clearing his head, going home alone…  
  
Something had to give.  It didn’t matter if it showed too much of his complete weakness as regarded the beautiful man before him.  Jim broke the kiss and looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath.  So beautiful, to see Sherlock in this state.  Come home with me, come home with me, let me be with you, I don’t care if we’re drunk and it could be my downfall to give you my address…stupid!  Too close!  Jim’s hand moved from Sherlock’s neck to stroke his cheek, and he did nothing to dispel the mix of lust and pain on his face.  “Tell me there’s no way,” he urged softly.  “Tell me John’s probably awake and there’s just…no possible way I could sneak up with you.  I…need to hear it.” He barely registered that the breathless words might tempt the other.  There was a desperation in Jim’s voice, for he knew they both needed to think, on their own, with extreme care, over this entire situation.  But he wanted so much, and if he was convinced he couldn’t have it, maybe he’d want it less, though the opposite was usually true.  Especially when it came to Sherlock Holmes.  
  
-  
  
The fact that the two of them were both on the same page, or at least closer than the same chapter, from before, was a relief to Sherlock. To be one-sided in this would be too much to handle, even with the haze of alcohol peacefully clouding him. It wouldn’t have worked if it wasn’t the two of them - they had to be in sync, which wasn’t really a problem in the first place, but was definitely a known fact by now. Jim wanted Sherlock and Sherlock wanted Jim. Perhaps in different ways, and it sounded completely foreign in his own mind, but that was the basis of what Sherlock had gathered over the night. He didn’t need to ask the criminal; not anymore, at least.  
  
Besides, even if he had asked, his answer would have been the resounding return of his affection, which was basically overwhelming evidence of the answer in the form of a determined tongue seeking out his own and a deeply pleasant sound from Jim gracing his ears. Maybe he would be able to touch, just a tiny bit, and he was about to release Jim’s shoulders when the taxi rolled to a stop. It was disheartening, really, the shared disappointment that had passed between the two of them just by the action of arriving at the flat. What Sherlock wouldn’t give to be able to spend just a bit more time with Jim, albeit somewhere more intimate than the back of a taxi.  
  
Though, how lovely it was to see Jim post-kiss. Sherlock knew the image would stick with him for nights to come, nights when they were spent unable to sleep yet lethargic enough to simply lay and think. And how Jim would be the subject of his dreams! It would have been considered an honour if it wasn’t quite as tragic. The hand on his cheek made his face heat up and he leaned into it instinctively, listening as Jim practically pleaded with him. The sheer desperation in his voice was enough to make Sherlock want to drag him up, regardless of whether or not John was awake, to hell with sneaking into his own flat. But that would be completely foolish and Sherlock knew it, for the both of them. Dangerous and foolish, but perfect. Sighing quietly, Sherlock took both of Jim’s hands, holding them tightly in his own and stared at the criminal. “You - we can’t,” was all he said, choked at the end of a breath, not wanting to admit it in the first place. It may have been inevitable, but it didn’t mean that they had to like it. With a final squeeze of Jim’s hand, Sherlock climbed out of the taxi, albeit slowly. Rather than starting for the flat, he turned around, leaned down and looked back into the window, not knowing how to say what he was feeling and instead opting to gaze at the criminal with complete regret written on his face.  
  
-  
  
The ‘we’ made the truth easier to swallow.  It wasn’t Sherlock sending him away, really.  It was Sherlock doing just as Jim had instructed him, and exactly what he had planned in giving Sherlock’s address to the cabbie instead of his own.  Control maintained - but at such a cost.  But the ‘we’ meant more maybe than Sherlock realized.  It meant he wasn’t alone in it.  Even if they both woke up in their respective beds tomorrow with an incredulous laugh, for the moment, they were in it together.   
  
The criminal was nodding, eyes on Sherlock’s, and tried to recover what ground he’d lost in sounding so lost, so in need of the other to be sensible because he couldn’t.  In need, in general.  Pathetic, really.  But Sherlock hadn’t disappointed him, and that was good.  In fact, Jim had been pleasantly surprised countless times tonight.  Subconsciously he knew they needed time to process it, and was no different in its own way than any other grand exit he’d make.  So long as he left Sherlock wondering - though maybe now it would be about different things entirely.  As regarded Jim’s affections, there could no longer be any doubt.   
  
He watched Sherlock slip out of the cab, exhaling shakily.  Oh, he could just murder John Watson right about now. The doctor was so very in the way.  There was a finality to the car door closing, and Jim had slipped just a little to the center of the seat, not wanting even for his profile to spotted through the window. Christ, was he ever a wreck of nerves and lust and loopy drunken affections that Sherlock hadn’t discouraged.  Jim wanted to laugh at himself and might, once he got over the longing, suffered by body, brain and soul all at once.  But at last, there’d been something beyond the game.  And he was certain for the first time ever, that there could be more.  _Oh, Sherlock.  Just try and keep me away now._  
  
Jim’s face was half-hidden in shadow as he peered up at Sherlock through the closed window, and smiled faintly, dazedly.  Sherlock was so smart; better that they didn’t have to voice a goodbye - ripping the bandage off quickly, wasn’t it?  But there was just enough dust on the window to make use of.  “Just dropping him off,” Jim said softly to the cabbie, wasting time while his hand rose towards the window, making a backwards **S** , then a **W**.  **E** , **E**.  “We’ll be going on to…” **T**.  A drunk man’s hesitation, the pause, but only for effect, tilting his face down, away from Sherlock so his lips mightn’t be read.  Below it, **D R E A** \- he gave the address now, spelling out the last two letters before the driver started moving.  **M S**.  Jim smiled again, and below it drew a little **x** , just as the wheels pulled away from the curb, bringing the criminal closer again to solitude.  
  
-  
  
Even after all that they had said and did that night, Jim still managed to surprise him. The act was particularly sweet, albeit if a bit cryptic, and a callback to the conversation that had started this entire whirlwind. Leave it to the criminal to romanticize him with sweet nothings just as they had to depart. He watched curiously as Jim tipped his head down, which struck Sherlock as a bit odd, though it did make some sense. Jim couldn’t afford to be careless, even on a night of fun out, and simply give his location away. But Jim could have given it to Sherlock through a megaphone and the detective still would not have pursued him, except perhaps for another night like this. Because he wouldn’t have to anymore.  
  
Sweet dreams, he had written on the window. An obvious oxymoron, considering Jim knew exactly what Sherlock would be dreaming about from now on, and they were to be anything but sweet. Though, for every night that Jim so politely invaded his own slumber, Sherlock was bound to be invading his right back. The thought made him smile, the action in contrast to what he was actually feeling watching the taxi drive further into the distance. He wanted to chase it, to call Jim back  before the night was truly over, but stayed rooted firmly to the spot, hands slightly clenching in his pockets. It was no real rush. They had all the time in the world now.  
  
Finally, after spending a considerable amount of time simply standing and watching the long gone taxi, Sherlock sighed softly and at last retreated into the flat. Ascending the stairs, albeit not easily, he idly wondered if indeed John was still awake, not bothering to check his phone to see if the doctor had tried to get in touch. It was all so quaint now, and a bit surreal, walking back into the previous life after an entirely new chapter with Jim. Of course, he would have to separate the two, which wouldn’t have been so difficult if the criminal wasn’t so bloody endearing. It was almost as if he was leading a double life now, detective by day and intoxicated romantic by night.  
  
The top of the stairs and the door that followed were the next obstacle. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock cautiously pushed it open, poking his head in and looking around for any sign of John. There was tea still on the table, two cups, he noticed, but not a sound from his flat mate. Oh well, better to slip into his room and avoid the awkward questions sooner rather than later. A sober Sherlock would be much better equipped to handle such questions in the morning. For now, the current one wished only to lay down with his thoughts for the rest of the evening, which is exactly what he did, falling back onto his sheets with a faint smile and simply reminiscing his favourite criminal.

  
-

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading; comments appreciated!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, keep an eye out for Part 2, in which our favorite consultants continue to torment each other with all that is, isn't, and could be. (And smut. Gotta love smut.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Header for "I'm Not Paralyzed, But I Seem To Be Struck By You" by collaborativesheriartyparty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327735) by [Boone_spn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boone_spn/pseuds/Boone_spn)




End file.
